The Starman
by BeaBae
Summary: AU. Patient Alfred, under the delusion that he had been abducted and held by aliens for ten years, has been sent with agent Francis Bonnefoy to therapist Arthur Kirkland for treatment. FrUk and UsUk. T for lang. and themes.
1. Chapter 1

**EDIT: So this has been finished for some time now. I am likely not going to go back and edit the mistakes I've found now, a year later, but I will say I still love this fic very much and am extremely proud of how it turned out. I hope everyone who has found this fic after its completion enjoy it as much as the people who read it during the process did.**

**Sierra – thank you so much for your wonderful review. I would love to speak with you more, but unfortunately fanfiction . net deleted your email address, and as you weren't signed in, I have no way of letting you know that except hoping that perhaps you return and read this. : ( So I hope you return somehow and we can talk. I'm beabae on ffnet but also on A03, deviantart and tumblr, if you have accounts at any of those places and wish to talk there instead. **

**End Edit.**

**To restate: The pairs are UK - US and noncommittal!FrUk. One will have love, the other, sex. BEST OF BOTH WORLDS! [/shotshot by all fans because I can't make anyone happy]**

**So yeah, this is less focus on the pairings and more on the characters. I'm not actually a porn writer. I'm sorry if I mislead anyone with that last fic D8**

**Pre fic warning:****I was focusing so hard on space travel (which might****_still_****be inaccurate) that I couldn't stand the thought of researching complicated things like psychological processes in mental hospitals and treatment down to the fine lines, so some of the psychology may be inaccurate as well. Sorry in advance, I tried. D8**

The boy was tall, blond, and silent as Arthur Kirkland entered the room. It was a simple room with windows, an easy chair and a striped green couch. The boy was sitting on the couch at the moment, shifting uneasily and frowning at the wooden arm rests on the sides, but looked up as Arthur shut the door and took his seat in the plush brown armchair.

"Good evening," Arthur says, smiling calmly and adjusting himself in the chair. He's so used to this room, it's familiar and cheers him up. Hopefully, his good cheer and calm will cheer and calm his patient as well, "You're Alfred, aren't you?"

Alfred says nothing.

His shoulders are hunched around his lowered head. If he were somewhere far more dangerous than a well-lit room with floral wallpaper, sitting on a rather distasteful green couch, he might look somewhat menacing. As it is, to Arthur the boy looks rather small and frightened. An impressive feat for someone who appears to be well built, and would tower well above the Arthur's head if they were to stand.

"My name's Arthur Kirkland. You can call me Arthur if you want. I work here, and we're going to be meeting rather often so you have someone you can talk to if you want to. That's alright, isn't it?"

Alfred says nothing.

"How much English do you speak?" Arthur says, making sure to annunciate his words as best as he can.

Alfred opens his mouth, hesitates a moment, and then says, "A little."

"Are there other languages you're better at speaking?" Alfred mutters something indistinct but it sounds confirming, "What is it?"

Alfred says nothing.

"Est-ce vous parlez français?" Arthur tries. Nothing. "Tu habla espagnol?" The same. "Sprechen Sie Deustch?" and he's exhausted most of his repertoire. He couldn't have spoken in much more than broken Spanish in any case. God forbid French or German. "I suppose we'll just stick to English, then."

Alfred agrees more heartily than before, a firm, "Yes," passing his lips. He doesn't nod or shake his head to agree or disagree, and though his hands are constantly fidgeting in his lap. He doesn't gesture much when speaking. Arthur wishes he would. It might make him more articulate.

"Then you understand me well enough?" Arthur says.

"Yes," Alfred says. His head is still lowered and his eyes stare straight ahead. He doesn't seem to mind staring at people or pointing, from what Arthur has been told. He doesn't appear to notice social signals. He doesn't speak any of the languages he's been exposed to, barring English. Even his English is spoken with an accent that some describe as German, others New Zealand and a third party, Norwegian. Arthur finds it rather slow, perhaps with a hint of Russian, and yet is reminded of the Welsh at the same time.

Alfred has no last or middle name. He claims 'Alfred' to be his only name, and thus his origins are difficult to trace, as he refuses to reveal those as well. It almost seems like he couldn't reveal them if he wanted to.

And so, Arthur Kirkland had done what any intelligent therapist would do before meeting with such a high-profile and potentially dangerous patient: he read the report.

Alfred, who has not given his age so they had to guess it, who has no last name and no history to follow, who turned up on the border of Russia and China with neither a passport, nor any personal belongings in the world. _Alfred_claims to have spent his life since he was eight years old, adopted by aliens.

Arthur, a bristling skeptic, had been practically _dying_to call 'bullshit' since the moment he'd received the file.

"Well, I'm your friend. I'm here for you to talk to if you feel the need to be with someone, and if I'm not around you can tell one of the lovely nurses and I'll see you as soon as I can. You can talk to other people to try and improve your English, but if there's something private or important that you don't want to tell others, you can always come to me, instead," Arthur says, smiling.

Alfred gives a small, uneven smile back, as though he's not entirely used to it. His lips thin but he doesn't show his teeth in the slightest.

Their session ends half an hour later, with Arthur demonstrating how to use a pencil, and Alfred's hands fidgeting quietly in his lap.

000

The man is blond, like Alfred, but they are very certainly not the same sorts of people.

Francis Bonnefois sits straight up in his chair, his hair, which Arthur supposes is usually quite sinuous, lays rather limp and wet from the downpour outside and dash to get indoors. The rain outside still rattles the eastern window frames. Francis' navy suit bears splatter marks on the shoulders and front, his gray pants the same.

"So the government sent you?" Arthur says.

"When people show up out of thin air, the government likes sending people," Francis says, smiling serenely.

Arthur nods, "Fair enough. I expect you won't be interfering with my work at all?"

Francis shakes his head, "Of course not. I will merely be here, you will give me transcripts and tell me what you believe dear Alfred's problem is, and I will send a report. That is all."

Arthur huffs. "Very well then. You'd like his first transcript, I assume?"

Francis smiles. He his white teeth that glisten between lush pink lips, Arthur can't help but notice. "That would be fantastic, thank you."

000

One week later, Alfred's English is improving and Arthur realizes the only reason he was so quiet before was he didn't have the words to speak with. Alfred seemed to understand well enough, with occasional miming, but now, Alfred can talk _back_ to him. It's still unknown what his first language is, and his accent still sounds like Welsh and Russian, but now that Alfred knows basic English, he almost seems to enjoy speaking.

With a laptop computer on a coffee table and a notebook on his lap, Arthur listened to Alfred speak in his stuttering, broken English, and describe the worlds he'd visited in his mind. There's a sketchbook to Alfred's left, to help them communicate when words don't get through. It's been invaluable in the past week since showing Alfred how to use a pencil and eraser.

"Asþenëllajakûoiąs," Alfred pronounces without hesitation, though just hearing the word makes Arthur's brain ache a little. "People are short," he holds his hand down to his knee, "and big. I had to, um…" he gets out of his chair to shuffle across the floor on his hands and knees to the wall, where he stands and returns to his seat.

"Crawl?" Arthur offers, and Alfred nods (he only started the day before, but now nods in abundance), and repeats, trying the word on his tongue.

"C_rr_-awl," he nods, because along with English, he's started picking up habits such as nodding and shaking his head. It makes speaking to him much less formal. Much less awkward and halting. "I crawl, because it is heavy. I could not walk," Arthur digests this and nods in understanding, scrawling on his note pad again. Alfred doesn't seem to notice or care. "Very hot, and brown. Tony didn't like Asþenëllajakûoiąs, but we had to give cows."

"Cows?" Arthur says.

Alfred nods. "The skin and, er… inside? Very good. We… got things for it."

"You sold cattle, then? To aliens?" Arthur can hardly force himself to say it, but he repeats it three times in simpler and simpler terms until Alfred has a small smile on his face and is nodding once more.

"Tony is G_rr_éh. He can…" Alfred pauses, considering, before inhaling deeply and purposefully.

"Breathing? Tony can breathe here?" Arthur does his own exaggerated breathing. "He can breathe?"

"Yes," Alfred smiles, proud of being able to communicate. "Cows grow on Earth, so many G_rr_éh are coming by to take cows sometimes."

Arthur nods, smiles back, and notes down that Alfred seems to also have absorbed cow abduction urban legends. "And why do you bring them to other planets?"

"Food," Alfred says, "and the soft part," he rubs along his arm, "is nice. They like it. At Kanataraabajadina, cows make me see the people. So I liked them there."

Arthur is ready to write down the risk of a possible, serious food allergy as he asks, "Cows make you see people?"

Alfred nods, "Kanataraabajadina. I can not see people there until they eat or wear cow. I see different… eeh, lines? Than they do. Different light?"

"So you couldn't see anyone because they only appeared in certain lighting, which you couldn't see?" Arthur says slowly.

Alfred says, "_Ih_— yes."

"Why could you see them after they'd eaten beef?"

Alfred points at his stomach, "I saw the cow here."

Arthur decides not to question that, though he would have thought that being unable to see the skin also meant Alfred wouldn't be able to see below the skin. "So you visited lots of different planets?" Alfred confirms it. "How did you breathe?"

Alfred presses his hands to his face, "Em, erm, on my face… Tony made a…" he rips a piece of paper from his sketch book, folds it in half and holds it over his mouth and nose like a mask, "And for my eyes. Sometimes ears, too."

"Did you ever have to cover the rest of your body?"

Alfred nods again, "Some did not have good air for me. Or they are very hot or very cold. Or too close to, uh…" he looks out the window. "Like your sun. So I have to cover me or I am dead."

Arthur nods. He scratches more notes into his pad, and considers his next question.

"What was the very first place you remember visiting?" he asks.

"Tony ship," Alfred says. "I was little," he holds his hand down low by the seat of his chair to show just how little he thinks he might've been.

"What about before Tony's ship? The very first place you remember."

Alfred pauses. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and chews on it for a long moment before speaking.

"Earth."

Arthur chokes on the spit he was about to swallow. "Y—_Earth_, Alfred?"

Alfred nods.

"What, er, what about Earth? What do you remember?"

"Um…" Alfred thinks for a long time, his hands fidgeting in his lap for at least a minute before he reaches out to his notebook and pencil and quickly sketches out the scene.

Lines jut out from the bottom of the paper, what seem to be shoots of grass with large blobs at the end, and above them, blank paper filled with lightly shaded circles.

"Did you live here?" Arthur asks, and Alfred nods. "With who?"

"A big boy and girl."

"Adults?"

"Yes— that," Alfred smiles, but then it falters and his hands droop back into his lap as he lays the picture down on the table. "They were not nice to me. I don't like them."

"Did they hurt you?" Alfred stares blankly for a moment, before Arthur mimes hitting himself in the head and then clutching it in pain. "Hurt you?" Then, Alfred nods.

"Sometimes. It was not good."

Arthur nods slowly, thoughtfully, and believes things are starting to come together. "Can you tell me about them?"

Alfred's eyes scan the room. "Uh. Yellow," he tugs on a strand of his own hair, "and brown," he points to his face. "Never," he smiles, "and always outside in the, uh, sun. With me. My hands… hurt?" when Arthur nods, "They hurt a lot. Red water, here," he shows his fingertips. If he squints, Arthur can see the faintest scarring at the tips. "From taking these," he points down again to his picture, and at the little clumps at the ends of the grass.

"What color were they? The plants," Arthur also points to them.

"White."

Arthur starts a quick google image search, and pulls up a picture of cotton. "Like this?"

Alfred nods, "Like that."

"And what are these?" Arthur asks, pointing to the circles, "Can you describe them?"

Alfred thinks, fidgets, stands, and after a moment walks to the window to point out at the sky. "At night. But more."

"You mean stars?" Arthur says.

"Stars?" Alfred says, returning to his seat.

"Stars," Arthur goes once more to his laptop and google images, typing in 'stars' and is rather surprised at how many images that appear are satellite photos and not stylized five-pronged ones.

Alfred, it seems, is even more surprised. His eyes go wide and he positively yelps, jumping out of his seat and onto his feet once more. Pointing wildly to the images, beaming and shouting, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

He crumples in on himself, knees to chest and chin to knees. He breaks into gasps and tears not five minutes later.

Arthur is unable to calm him, and so the nurses take him back to his room and try to tempt him with hot food, and discreetly fill a needle with sedatives.

He sleeps quietly until night. When he wakes, he begs to be let outside so that he might look at the sky more clearly than through his window.

He's led in once more when the tears resume flooding his cheeks, and no soothing words or promises of companionship will calm him.

And so, gently, Alfred is sedated once more.

000

That afternoon, before Alfred wakes and begs for the roof, Arthur fills out papers and prints the transcript before leaving the room with the striped green couch for good. The radio on a desk is tuned to a mix station when Arthur enters the office area, and Francis sits primly in the chair across from where Arthur normally makes his nook. Since the first day, he's sat there, calmly taking the transcripts Arthur hands him and sliding them into his black suitcase. They've done this for a week exactly and it's already as routine as it gets.

Today, Francis' suit is jet black, his oxford is deep red and his shoes shine like dimes. If Arthur looks closely, his nails have been newly manicured. Without looking closely, his hair is blond and perfect.

Arthur resists the temptation to ask how many hours Francis spends each morning plucking his eyebrows to get that perfect arch and wonders if he should monitor Francis' eating habits, just in case the man notices he's gaining weight and does something stupid to try and lose it.

Then, Arthur reflects he's probably just been hearing quite a bit from the two anorexics in Wing D and that not everyone tries to starve themselves when they find flaws in their otherwise immaculate appearances.

He refrains from poking at Francis' habits because of such concerns, though. After all, if the man wants to use eyeliner (which Arthur _had_ caught him employing it in the bathroom the previous Thursday), so be it, as long is his waist remains fleshy.

"So I assume you've heard about our little incident?" Arthur says as Francis opens his suitcase to slide the transcript in. Francis will look over it later in the evening, along with all the other files he's gathered during the day, write down his report on the going-ons with Alfred, and send it all off in express mail, and all the packaging and envelopes arrive at their destination the following afternoon, right on schedule.

"I've heard only vaguely," Francis says as the radio on the desk begins belting _Penny Lane_ by the Beatles. A passing secretary hums along with it. Her chest is flat, but Francis' eyes still dart over for a moment. Arthur has never particularly noticed her, but he does notice the glance. "Enlighten me."

"I asked him where he lived before he was in space and he drew a picture of a cotton field at night. So I tried to show him a picture of stars and he went completely off it. He was crying for at least twenty minutes and the nurses practically had to pry him off my laptop. It was bizarre."

"What do you think caused it?" Francis asks.

"The images of stars, obviously. _Why_ they had that effect on him is a little more difficult to answer, though I'd wager it's a very extreme version of, ahem, 'home sickness,'" Arthur huffs, "He's _very_ convinced that he's actually gone to other planets. They're in the transcript. I believe it's a sort of very vivid escapist fantasy that he's created to escape some sort of highly traumatic event that probably happened in his childhood around eight years old— when he first claims he was abducted. That, or his childhood as a whole, with it manifesting at eight years."

"Did he say about it?"

"He apparently worked in cotton fields and the people he lived with would hurt him. He doesn't quite… have the vocabulary to tell me exactly _what_ they did, but it was most definitely not the sort of environment a healthy child would've grown up in."

"But he admits to being a human at least?"

"Human, yes. He's never denied that. The important thing he's admitted is that he realizes he's an _Earthling_."

"So you might be getting through to him?" Francis' pink lips quirk their ends upward into a smile.

"I might have a chance, if I don't tear all my hair out first," Arthur sighs, just as the radio changes songs again and David Bowie begins to bellow, "_There's a star man waiting in the sky, he'd like to come and meet us but he'd think he'd blow our minds—_"

Arthur might have broken the dial with how forcefully he turns the radio off.

Francis raises a single perfect eyebrow, and says nothing.

"I've had quite enough of outer space for a while," Arthur huffs. Francis nods mutely, and yet manages to seem like he's rolling his eyes while doing it. "If you need me, I'll be making tea. Good day." He turns and walks out the door with nary a look over his shoulder, leaving the Frenchman far behind.

Arthur leaves late that night and walks home with the stars just barely visible above him, faded and hidden among the city lights so that only the merest pinpricks can be seen against an otherwise velvety black backdrop.

He imagines Alfred up on the roof with the nurses beside him (how it was when he left the hospital. No tears, yet. Not like that afternoon.) and thinks Alfred must be straining himself quite a bit to catch a glimpse of flickering lights.

His apartment on 3rd Street is across from the bakery on the fourth floor. It's small, messy and smells of cats inside, though he got rid of his cat years ago. He has no time to clean during his evenings and has no desire to clean on his days off. There are pictures on the wall of his adoptive family, and on the coffee table, a vase of badly arranged, half-dead, thornless roses that would've driven his mother and eldest brothers mad.

His address book lies beside the vase, all acquaintances, none particularly close. No girlfriends to speak of— or boyfriends, for that matter. No cell numbers or kissy-goo-goo notes in a diary. There's day-old leftovers in the refrigerator and he reheats it in the microwave for dinner, eating scraps of spicy chicken over the sink and sipping a spot of tea after.

His bed is empty when he crawls between the sheets near midnight.

He tells himself he's happy with his life, and a wretched little voice in the back of his mind recites all the drawbacks of lying to yourself until the drone subsides and, somehow— headache, sore back and all— Arthur falls sleep.

He pretends he doesn't pay attention when he wakes up all alone.

000

**A/N:**

**This thing is so long and hard to write, I don't even know if I can manage this… afskgfd**

**I got the idea for this this back before Us/Entire UK, actually, but only just started getting it out. This was supposed to just be three chapters but I think it's going to be four now maybe. I'll try to keep it short…**

**This was kind of meant to try and marry FrUk and UsUk in a non-sexual fill, and also use space, which is awesome and US/sky/Outer Space needs so much more love. France and England were selected as the main characters because, though the story is driven by America, France and England are the main focus. Sorry, UsUk peoples. It's still important in here!******

**Notes:**

-**Something important right off: They aren't sedating Al because he's crying. They're sedating him because he's****_hysterical_****. It's different from crying. It's kind of frightening. It's just as frightening to be the one hysteric. It's a horrible feeling to not want to cry but just not be able to stop.**

**-Picking cotton by hand is very tedious and strenuous on people. The briars on cotton plants sometimes prick, draw blood at or scar the hands, arms and fingers of pickers if they're not careful. With how many pieces of cotton there can be in a field, however, it's pretty much guaranteed that (at least once) their concentration will falter. Cotton was one of the main exports of America (besides tobacco) and still is harvested today, but now with machines more often than not.**

**-I'm somewhat more familiar with German and French than I am with Spanish (wtf, Mexico?) . I can maybe tell you my name, how I'm feeling, a few colors, numbers, and "look, a tiny/big pregnancy!" in Spanish (is that even possible?) , but not well enough to know them on paper. I'm pretty sure the German and French are correct, though. Even though I can only read German and it's confusing with its capital letters on the nouns and four different ways to say 'the'. Oh, German D8 and they say English is confounded.**

**-the things that showed up in the google search bar were more likely satellite images of nebulas. Alfred loves stars as well (though being in a city, it's very difficult for him to catch a glimpse of any, and so he's halfway oblivious to them right now) but in space, nebulas look pretty damn awesome, too. And he wouldn't have to worry about his eyes melting out of their sockets each time he looked at them! 8D So Alfred's definition of "star" at the moment is a little vague. But he knows the general idea. Now as long as Arthur doesn't explain a pulsar or quasar as a star, too… at which point, Alfred would seriously question Earth's knowledge of space.**

**-Alfred's speech patterns are based on some of the foreign students at my school.**

**ONE CHAPTER DOWN. YEAH. WE ROLLIN'.**

**Hetalia belongs to H.H., not me. I own nothing. NOTHING I SAY. ;_;**

**Reviews are beloved.**

**Next time:****pubbing with a government official.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to CaptainCynical for reviewing.**

It's been a week since Alfred's breakdown and he's recovered decently enough.

Arthur has been poking around and looking for medications that might help him, but can find very little that seems like it might be effective. For the moment, he goes with anti-depressants and for a while is relieved of Alfred's monstrous homesickness that usually crushed them in the tiny room they shared so often.

Homesickness isn't everything that crushes Alfred from the inside out, however. So the pills only take the edge off. His mind has kept him very, very isolated, it seems.

From everything.

And it's manifested in the form of the Universe.

"Very quiet," Alfred says, his voice a whisper, like some larger cosmic power might be disturbed if he speaks too loudly. "Not black, but not light. Er… lots of lights, but not _light_. Very… not with people. There is never other people around," his feet shuffle, "Very… not like here."

Arthur scratches a note that Alfred seems to have a fondness for words like 'very' and 'big,' and that he never uses them when referring to things on Earth, unless comparing them with space. _Space_is always 'very' and 'big' when Alfred speaks about it. When Arthur tried to explain space as a distance, Alfred shook his head and repeated "no," and "very too small," not listening to another word said that day.

Arthur can't help but wonder how many planets and starships and miles (_lightyears?_ ) can possibly be crammed into one place, one _mind_, and decides it's probably best he not think about the vastness of the universe when he can instead think about the stifling little room he sits in.

The humidity is akin to murder, and Arthur finds he hopes it starts raining soon, if only to cool the place down. The air conditioning is broken, and the window open, hoping to tempt a breeze. He didn't realize how hot things could become or how sticky his back could get.

Alfred tugs on the neck of his shirt and has apparently either discovered that he can roll his pants up to his knees or a nurse has discovered it for him. Driblets of sweat roll down his brow and neck. His skin has darkened just from sitting by the window for the past month. Alfred is now a lovely tan color, as opposed to his previously paler complexion.

"Very not warm, too," Alfred finds it prudent to add.

"It's cold in space?" Arthur asks, more out of habit than curiosity.

"Not cold. But not warm."

"What about Tony's spaceship?"

"Same. Very… not warm and not cold. Er… the middle? But not like space. Space is very not-cold-or-warm but is so much both that you die," he nods smartly. "So when I am in Tony's ship, I stay there for a very long time until we find a new planet or ship. But sometimes I still do not get off Tony's ship."

"Why wouldn't you get off?"

"The people on the ship would kill me," Alfred's face is perfectly straight. "Or the ship would kill me. Because some people like their ship dangerous and my clothes might be bad so I couldn't wear them."

After talking with Alfred so long about his 'clothing', Arthur wakes up each morning, opens his closet door and thinks 'space suit' when he looks at his trousers and pants.

Alfred has spoken with Arthur about things he's never spoken about with other patients. Yes, the anorexic and bulimic dears in Wing D wax poetical about clothes and their appearances, but Alfred stutters and hums about how strange pants and shirts feel, how scratchy their fibers are and hard to move in they are compared to what he moves in. When Arthur looks back on his papers, he learns Alfred was discovered in ill-fitting local clothes and a blanket, half frozen to death.

He's chatted in old jobs about God and religion and the loss of belief and faith. He's seen Francis' coat hang open to reveal a crucifix necklace just smile sadly when asked about it and said, "There's just a few people I'd like to believe are enjoying Heaven."

Alfred doesn't speak of his own religion, but speaks of the _beings_ that watch over the Tamaranians. The immortal Queen of the G_rr_éhs who Tony and all other G_rr_éhs are born of and who sees into all their minds when in her presence. The All-Father and the King of the Kryptons and the turtle (or, what seems to be a turtle, translated from Alfred's scrawled drawings) who apparently carries the Universe and an infinite number of other universes on its back.

The depressed have sighed about the endless voids of loneliness they feel, how the world seems so gray and bleak, and Arthur's heart goes out to them in their colorless void and tries to help them find their way back from Kansas to Oz.

Alfred, when he does, whispers about a literal black void, where particles are spread so thin they might as well hardly exist, until they hit the hull of a ship and nearly rip it off. Where colors are only vibrant on planets and vigorous in stars, and oh, those _stars_he speaks of.

"So you were alone very often?"

Alfred nods and smiles a bitter little smile. Arthur wonders who taught him how to do that.

"So why didn't Tony try harder to find you places you could go out safely? Or bring you back to Earth sooner, where you could be with your own kind?"

"I did not want to come to Earth. I do not like it. Others made Tony take me back because Earth is not supposed to have contact until it is good enough. So I am not supposed to be there. But I shouldn't be here, too."

"And why shouldn't you be?"

"Because I am not like you."

Silence rules the room. Outside, cars skid down the road and someone curses the heat. One minute passes.

"I don't mind being alone," Alfred looks down and fidgets, "Here it is crowded and noisy. People tell me I'm doing things wrong a lot. I know. No one likes me. And I don't like them. It wasn't that bad."

Arthur's heart twists. He hates his job sometimes. He loves it when it helps but ever other time he hates it.

He says nothing, and lets Alfred speak.

"When things were really lonely, Tony would go close to stars. And I would watch them. I love them. I want to see them again," Alfred says. His hands are folded in his lap. He looks up and looks Arthur in the eye. His eyes are blue. Blue like the sky he wants to grab in his hands and rip apart, tear out shreds of clouds and chunks of atmosphere until there's a hole big enough to fly through like the birds he screams at through his windowsill. "No one will let me."

It is silent again.

Alfred watches Arthur.

Arthur swallows, tries to untwist his heart, and finds his voice.

"Alfred," he says, "we can't."

000

It's late again when Arthur leaves the hospital.

Alfred is on the rooftop with a nurse once more, staring up at the stars. He's been up there for some time, now, without crying. Exposure, they thought, might make him relax.

His bulky figure is barely visible against the night sky, even though the streets are alight with posts and shop windows and the sky is brimming with moonbeams. Like a star, Alfred drowns in them, faded against the lights.

Francis stands by his car, an electric blue BMW, and Arthur stands beside him, his own Toyota parked by happenstance right next to the beamer. Francis' blue eyes shimmer, even in the dark, peeking out like searchlights in every direction they turn. Arthur can't tell if they find anything or not.

"Do you drink?" Francis says, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the crickets and cars whooshing past down the road.

"Like a fish," Arthur admits. He blames it on fatigue. Francis seems to smile. It's hard to tell with the streetlamps casting half his face into shadows.

"Do you know of any good places? You look like you could use a night on the town."

Arthur wonders where froggy government agents ever learned to speak like that.

"That sounds absolutely fantastic. But you're designated driver, or I'm taking a taxi."

Francis throws his head back and laughs. His hair flairs out around his head like an angel, and Arthur hates the men in his life for being there and still not being there. It feels like Francis is laughing at him, even though Arthur realizes that's just his self esteem talking, when—

"That's an even better idea. Let's take the taxi. I hate being responsible."

000

They park their cars on Arthur's street when Arthur remembers there's a bar close enough that a taxi isn't even required to reach it, which saves more of their pocket money for alcohol. Down the street, they agree to split the tab and step into a little brown building with flashing neon signs in the windows and talking fish plaques in the bathrooms. The front part of the bar is clean and not terribly crowded, with an old-fashioned boom box in the corner and hanging lamps that flood the floors with gentle light.

They slide into a booth and Arthur debates between vodka and port before settling on the vodka, while Francis opts for a glass of deep red merlot— saying that while he adores it, champagne tends to make him a but giddy, and, (smirking) he doesn't believe that Arthur would appreciate the beauty that is a giddy Bonnefois.

Arthur snorts and rolls his eyes, and nurses his drink, hoping to make it the night without drinking the bar out.

"I usually drink with my brothers," he says when Francis questions his hesitance; "They stop me before I get too much. They've ridiculous tolerance— I feel like a lightweight," he sips the drink, "I did manage to drink them under the table, once. They'd just been having a contest with my mother and were halfway smashed by the time I challenged them, though. I can't tell you how many bars they got banned from."

He realizes there's a fond little smile spreading over his lips and he quickly takes another drink, grimacing as the burn goes down a bit too fast for his liking. "Still. Bastards, the lot of them. Do you have any family?"

"Here and there," Francis responds, "My mother isn't exactly around, so I was raised by my father. Or my father's friend. He was never very specific about what exactly their relationship was," Francis shrugs and displays his own small, fond smile. "He's got two grandchildren, my nephews. Twins. They're in Italy right now, studying art. We haven't spoken lately, though. Expensive phone calls, you see. They send me an email every now and then, though."

Arthur nods and fingers the rim of his glass. "No other family?"

"A few cousins, a niece in Belgium, perhaps one or two distant relations in the Americas. A half brother or sister back in France, I believe. I was never very good at keeping track, nor particularly attached to any of them. It's very easy to lose contact."

Arthur nods and hums, still fingering the ring of the glass. "Really? I rather imagined you to have a lot of close family. Wife, family reunions every few weeks, runts ruining the furniture…"

Francis gives a breathy little laugh and sips his merlot. Somewhere in the midst of it, there seems to be a grimace of pain at the words, though Arthur can't quite pick out where. "No, not really. No wife or children. I've been thinking about adoption, though. I'd hate to knock someone up and take the child— if things didn't last," he turns his head and coughs into his fist, "Anyway, ah, what about you? Any close family?"

"No, not really," Arthur takes another sip and finds the burn much more enjoyable this time. "I keep contact with my brothers somewhat. I've babysat for my nephew once or twice— cheeky little thing. They're completely spoiling him."

"No wife?"

"I've never really been interested."

Francis twirls his wine and watches the sides of his glass, and chuckles, "Both thirty and bachelors. I never would've thought it."

Arthur sets his cup down mid-sip, several drops splattering the table. "I-I am _not_that old!"

Francis raises one of his perfectly arched eyebrows. "What's wrong with being thirty? It's a perfectly refined age… You're not one of the ones who believes once they hit thirty they're no longer attractive, are you? Because that is complete and utter bullshit. I've met seventy year olds that I found absolutely stunning. Age isn't degradation; it's simply a more delicate sort of beauty."

"I-I am not interested in relationships or concerned about my appearance. I simply wished to tell you that I am most certainly not thirty yet," his argument is not aided by his face turning bright red all the way to the tips of his ears, which reach a particularly lovely shade of scarlet.

"I really believe you," Francis sips to the last few drops of his merlot.

"I'm a therapist. I think I can analyze whether I care for my own intimate relationship or not," he scowls and chugs half his vodka in one go.

"Of course," and smirks.

Francis forces a pause in the conversation to take the cups to the bar and acquire more alcohol. Arthur sits and stews while he's gone, and takes another proportionally large gulp when the glass is once again set in front of him. He reflects that maybe his problem isn't tolerance, but pacing, and quickly dismisses the preposterous notion.

"Why did you become a therapist, now that you've brought it up?"

"I enjoy psychology and helping people," Arthur opts for the standard response, "Why are you doing… whatever your job is?"

"It pays well. And I get to travel often, which I enjoy," he swirls the merlot once more,

Arthur hums and once against starts fingering the rim of his vodka. "I see."

"Do you get patients like Alfred often?"

"No, no, not at all. Well, _I_haven't. Someone else might be a specialist or just have particularly bad luck and get a lot of escapists, but no, not me," he almost feels like ordering dinner here as well, and debates it in his mind for a few moments before deciding the vodka will make enough of a dent in his paycheck if he goes overboard as he's learned he's prone to do. "He's quite different than the ones I get."

"Is he just different because of being an, ah, escapist?" Francis daintily sips his wine once more.

Arthur finds himself entranced by how Francis' Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, "No, he's special. I erm… can't quite explain it well, but he says a lot of things that… uh…" He doesn't want to explain. He drinks his vodka. "Well, the language barrier certainly makes him stick out."

Francis nods, "Indeed it does," and winks at a passing waitress, "It must be very interesting talking with him."

"It's a headache," Arthur snorts and gives the same waitress a dirty look for no particular reason. "Some of the things he says… apparently, the reason Earth hasn't been permitted to join the grand alliance of space… ports, or what have you, isn't because of our apparently inferior space-flight technology. It's because we're discriminatory against our fellow Earthlings and only planets with true equality are helped in, so we have to make spaceships on our own."

Francis raises one of his perfect eyebrows and takes another sip. His Adam's apple bobs once more. "Well, I suppose we do still have quite a bit of racism and sexism, especially in certain countries, but—"

"No, no. You're not understanding me," Arthur knocks back the last drops of his vodka. His head is becoming rather pleasantly light. He slaps his palms down on the table. "It's animals."

Francis blinks. "What?"

"Animals," Arthur repeats. "They live in our houses, eat with us, and are considered members of the family, but they're considered sub-human intelligence and they don't have representation in Congress or Parliament or, well, _anywhere_, because they're fucking _animals_."

Francis opens his mouth to speak but never gets the chance.

"Just— who the _fuck_ beamed PETA messages into outerspace? Who the fuck did that and _why_did they think it was a good idea?"

For a moment, Francis is silent. The rest of the bar seems to have gone into a lull with him, but while most background conversations pick up once more after a few painful seconds. Francis remains silent a moment more. Then, "He watched _PETA messages_. In _outer space_."

Arthur nods and scowls, but more scowls than nods. "He apparently learned English. Through PETA. 70's cartoons. And radio waves. I need a vacation. And another drink."

His glass is refilled, and Arthur leans against the edge of their table.

Francis seems to laugh quietly into his merlot and takes his time with his next sip, rolling his head back languidly as his blue eyes flicker over Arthur's features. "So, you actually believe he's from space now?"

"Of course not," Arthur drinks. "The idea is preposterous. I can't wait until we find his family and can ship him back to them and let a therapist in his home area deal with him."

"He bothers you?" Francis' eyebrow is cocked once again, though it seems slightly different this time. Or maybe that's just the look in Francis' eyes— they seem a little darker. Perhaps he's just lowered his gaze.

It's a tribute to Arthur's small hold in sobriety that he pauses before answering, because if he hadn't, he might have uttered something accidental that would leave him red, stuttering and shamed. "No. I like him— as a person. He's sweet. But all the fucking space travel bullshit is bullshit."

"I hope you don't say that in front of him."

"I imply it," Arthur huffs. "I'm supposed to try and make him come back down to Earth, god damnit, I can't exactly encourage him."

"Well, what do you think about his language, then?"

"There's a disease that a blow to the head will make a person speak a completely different language or accent for a while. He could have that, in which case, it should wear off eventually. He understood what I said well enough in the beginning, we just need to help get him back to English, so we really should have a speech therapist in here instead of me."

"You really want to get rid of him, I see."

"No. I want him to get better and get a bloody grip on Earth— I shouldn't say that, but he's stubborn as a mule. Argue with him sometime. It's ridiculous."

"Maybe I will."

"Don't, it upsets him. I mean, he's kind of cute upset but it's still not nice."

"Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"Slow down on the vodka."

000

The next morning Arthur is alone in his apartment with a shrieking alarm clock and a headache throbbing like a drum.

There's a bottle of water and Advil on his bedside table, and a note on his kitchen counter in looping handwriting that reads, _Sorry about last night, I slept on your couch since I don't think even a taxi could get me back home. Pancakes are in the fridge to make up for it? I hope your head hurts just as much as mine, my misery needs a lot of company right now._

_Signed,  
>—F. Bonnefois.<em>

Arthur eats reheated pancakes for breakfast, and somehow manages to not be bothered wondering how much Francis went though his kitchen before finding all the ingredients.

He's still woken up alone, which reassures him his life has not been transported into a romance novel. Still, as he swallows another bite of pancake doused with syrup he didn't know he had, Arthur finds the morning somehow more enjoyable than the ones before it.

000

**End CH 2**

**No offense, PETA. Your intentions are good, and you've done some great stuff, but you're taking it a bit far sometimes. (also, as far as I know, PETA does not actually beam messages into space.8T )**

**Francis seems like a merlot person to me… and I've been spelling his name Bonnefois instead of Bonnefoy because "bon(ne) fois" in French means "Good time." I think of all human names, "François Good-time" is probably the best for France. I don't use François mostly because the code or inserting slows me down a lot. A LOT. I have a habit of changing how I spell his name between fics depending on how much fun he has in them or how French he is, the POV, etc. Sorry if it bothered anyone. 8(**

**Reviews are beloved.**

**Notes: **

**Space itself would be cold. But all the things, like, say, stars, emit huge amounts of heat radiation (sunlight, plz) . So, space itself is very cold. Everything in it is just really hot. This is why spaceships are built to have super-effective reflective systems to cool the craft without using much energy. This is also why when Apollo 13 turned off most of its power, the temperature went down to near freezing, while the planets are heated by sunlight.**

**Also, looking at the sun directly (as in, without an atmosphere or similar protection) will result in severe sunburns, possible skin cancer and temporary blindness at best, and at worst, permanent blindness and death. Love your atmosphere, guys! Especially you, Australia!**

**The disease that makes people speak in foreign languages is real. It's called "Foreign Accent Syndrome" Most of the time, the condition is temporary, but there's been one case where a woman spoke in a deep, manly Jamaican accent until she got speech therapy.**

**This notes section is dedicated to talking about the mindfuck of space travel, which has to go somewhere in here, but next chapter I'm giving you a more relevant notes so the space-talk just goes here. I suggest you take a nice long nap before reading it:**

**Before I go into this paragraph monster, I have one thing to say: I hate outer space logic. It's too confusing. Nothing is as it should be out there. This is your second only warning because I can't make heads or tails of space logic on my own.**

**For Alfred to see the stars properly, he'd have to be a ways away from them (I am not looking up the distance. 'Space' and 'distance' are words that should never go together because alkjsjdsakhd ) in order to still see them since they would be passing them while going faster-than or equal-to lightspeed. They would also have to be going in the vague direction of the star and have it in front of them. In order to see them, he'd have to be wearing a protective suit to avoid being fried, or we can assume Tony's ship has a similar protective layer sort of functioning like the earth's atmosphere (but an artificial, built-in "atmosphere," obviously) This is also assuming Tony has a FANTASTIC navigational system that includes a flawless calendar and speedometer that is all at the same time a super computer, just to prevent them from completely missing their planets and stars and space stations, etc in general, since they would be traveling faster than their signals might be able to ask for coordinates (if the place they're going to is manned) that we're just going to assume would be accurate and that each place they go to knows exactly at what speed they're drifting, the affect and force of gravity on it and their orbit pattern as well as the time Tony would be arriving. I guess that perfect Nav system would actually be a given in any space-going vassal, though? The different planets and ships Alfred would visit would also require at least one type of protective space-suit in case Tony couldn't manage to build in all the specific life-saving minor adjustments that would be necessary. They also probably have a shitload of plants on that spaceship for oxygen production, feeding and sustaining cows, etc. if they don't have an artificial way to produce oxygen and then and then and then…**

**Outer Space is so huge, we literally have no word for it. It is very easy to be lost, isolated, forgotten, killed, disappear into, go mad in, or just become horribly ill from not having the same gravity, in just the distance between one star to another.**

**Oh, and time travel. You can time travel in outer space. Forward. With no paradoxes what-so-ever. You just can never go back. And your speed will have to be ridiculous. I will give a cyber-cookie and a special mention to anyone who knows what I'm talking about in the A/N of next chapter.**

**God. Fuck you, outer space. Just fuck you.**

**Hetalia belongs to Himaruya. I own nothing but my busted, abused brain.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to Dionnysia and Captain Cynical for reviewing!**

Alfred has started smiling when Arthur enters the room for each session.

Arthur is starting to lose track of time, but it's been over a month. Alfred is a beautiful man, and has learned to say some very beautiful things.

"Hello," he says.

"Good afternoon," Arthur responds, taking his seat. "And how have you been?"

"Sleepy," Alfred says. "The stars would not come out last night. So I stayed awake."

"You shouldn't do that to yourself. If the stars aren't going to come out there's no point in waiting for them, you know," Arthur says, crossing his legs and pulling out his notebook to rest it on his knee, pencil in hand and poised to write.

"I know," Alfred frowns. He's emoting. He's smiling and frowning and sighing like all other human beings on the planet. He's remembering English and taking care of his own cleanliness each morning. He doesn't complain about knocking back his anti-depressants anymore.

But he still believes in his abduction.

Arthur's lost track, but it's been over a month, and no one claiming to be Alfred's family has come forward. No matter how many images are put up online or how many missing persons' files they go through, they don't find him. The find the name 'Alfred,' certainly, but none blond, blue eyed and white have gone missing within the last ten years.

"Is there anything in particular you wanted to talk about today?"

Alfred shakes his head. "Not really."

The conversation will turn to stars eventually, Arthur knows. Even if Alfred says he doesn't particularly care for anything at the moment, Arthur knows. Stars will appear eventually.

"Has your room been warm enough? It's starting to get cold out, isn't it?"

Alfred nods, "My room is nice but the halls are very cold to me."

"We can get you a jacket," Arthur says, showing Alfred the one he wears at the moment. It's thin but warm and as fond of Alfred as he may be, he isn't sacrificing his own warmth inside the jacket for Alfred's warmth, so instead, for a temporary fix, Arthur stands and finds a blanket hidden in one of the back corners of the room and helps Alfred wrap himself in it.

Alfred sighs and snuggles into it, appearing much more content than he had just a few moments before. He smiles up at Arthur a second time. Arthur smiles back and settles again in his chair.

"Thank you."

"It's no trouble," he preps his notebook once more, "So you've been comfortable? Good. And no one's bothered you too much? Alright, lovely. So what's happened since last time?"

Alfred weaves a halting tail of learning the basics of chess in the afternoon (he sleeps through half of the morning) to learning how to open and close his window the few limited inches it permits, and the night shift leading him to the roof now each evening so he can squint up at the night.

He apparently doesn't notice the minutes he spends on the roof before being led down are getting shorter and shorter. If he does, he doesn't mention it, and Arthur writes that down, and continues to listen.

Alfred has a nice voice, now that it isn't shuddering to a halt halfway before where the end of every word should be and curving all his sentences into questions of "is this how it's said?"

He's started taking a notice in music that some of the nurses play through little speakers in their handhelds or through radios at certain desks, like the one out in the hall chanting "_The spaceman says everybody look down— it's all in your mind,_" that Arthur has recently learnt to tolerate.

Someone has been teaching him to read. Arthur hasn't met him, but Alfred speaks of Dr. Braginski very fondly, and explains he is also the one teaching Alfred about chess in between the alphabet and Magic School Bus books, which he studies with vigor, enchanted by the strange blue planet he's found himself stranded back on.

Those are not the words he uses, but the meaning is exact.

"Since I can not leave now, I think I should learn more about here," he smiles a sad little smile. "But your language is silly. But dog seem nice."

"Dogs," Arthur corrects.

Alfred nods quickly. "Dog_ss_ seem nice. I haven't met any, but I think they would be nice."

"They're quite nice things," Arthur says. He doesn't like dogs. He doesn't like their slobber, barking or how their eyes always make them look so pitiful. He doesn't like talking about them, either. "You think you're stranded?"

Alfred can't raise his eyebrows, but he has learned to make a rather lovely befuddled expression. "No."

"Why?"

"He is too far away by now," Alfred said. "By the time he came back I would be older. It is not worth it for him."

Arthur leans forward, pen poised and ready. "I got the impression Tony cared deeply for you?"

Alfred nods, eyebrows furrowed, "He does! He is very nice. But I die so fast that it really would not be worth it to him to come back for me now that he is leaving and I am stuck."

"Alfred," Arthur says, "You're young. You've still got quite a long life ahead of you."

Alfred shakes his head. "Not very. Tony will live for a very long time, but here I will die much faster than before."

Arthur's pen is on the paper and writing. "Do you feel unsafe?"

Alfred shakes his head, "No."

"But why do you think you would die soon?" he asks.

Alfred opens his mouth to speak and promptly shuts it again. "I… don't know your word for it."

Arthur finishes his most recent note and says, "Could you draw it?"

Alfred looks down at his notebook, "Um. It is not a thing."

"Could you explain it?"

Alfred looks down at his notebook again. "I can try?"

He sets his notebook down and picks up his pencil and eraser. "Here," he says, setting down the eraser, "is one place. Um. Earth, I guess. And it is moving always, and it does not go very fast," he looks up to Arthur, and Arthur nods.

"Yes."

Alfred goes on, setting down his pencil. "This is a ship. It goes very, very fast. So on the ship, I do not get… old. I do not get old as fast as I do if I am on Earth, because the ship is moving very fast compared to Earth. And with Tony, he is on ship and so he will not be old as fast as I will, here," Alfred looks up at him again. His eyes are wider this time. "and I will die before he can come back."

Arthur doesn't pick up his notebook yet. He leans forward in his chair and folds his hands in front of him.

"Alfred," he says. "If that happened, you would have to be… quite old by now."

Alfred nods. "You don't see, because to me I am my oldness. But here things went faster but on their own time and I was not here for it so I am not old. Because I was in Tony's ship."

"Alfred," Arthur says softly. He wrings his hands once and then forces himself to stop. His eyebrows are drawn in a tight line and even for Alfred's incredible details up until this point, this is just too much _science_ for a _fantasy_ and it frightens him. "Do you remember a year, perhaps, that you were born? Or the year you were abducted? Not your age, the year?"

Alfred pauses and thinks, scrunching up his nose and closing his lips tightly. He taps his foot and clenches the blanket, turns to Arthur, and answers.

"1864."

000

It's raining. The spray remains firmly outside as Arthur holes himself in behind his desk. His sweater is woolen, a present from one of the brothers the Christmas before, and despite the poor color choice, it's keeping him wonderfully warm, even in the dreary weather. Well, warm for the most part. His feet and hands are positively freezing and he wants nothing more than a foot warmer and some matching wool gloves, or perhaps a foot warmer and a hot cup of chamomile.

His fingers are as ice cubes while he looks over his notes for that day, and the rain patter-pats on the window, half hiding the dreary and shadowed cityscape beyond the walls.

It's been raining a lot, lately it seems. Alfred is saddened because this means he can't stargaze. Arthur wonders if he should buy a star map as a poor substitute, though they're trying to bring him off his cosmic addiction.

Just as he thinks about making himself a cup of tea or hot cocoa, the door to the room opens. It's the fifth time Francis has entered the building rain-spattered and gray, but the first time with such a look of anger over his face. His eyebrows are furrowed and creases are on his forehead. His hair is imperfect.

"Alfred's being transferred."

"_What?_"

Arthur gets out of his chair so quickly he nearly sends himself and the chair clattering to the floor in a heap, but recovers at the last moment to lean on his desk and stare. "What?" he repeats.

"Our Alfred. Alfred, from wing F., the one you've been complaining about for at least a month?" Francis says, breath coming out in huffs. "I've gotten a response. The government wants him transferred to a more secure facility where he won't be a danger."

"That's bullshit," Arthur struts around his desk and plucks the paper from Francis' fingers.

_Agent Bonnefois_ is begins, and Arthur can't even be bothered to read the rest entirely and simply skims it until he reaches the words, _reports have made it clear that Patient Alfred is no longer safe for the public are and will be transferred to an undisclosed safe location on the _

Arthur looks up, "He not dangerous. You told them he was dangerous."

"I said no such thing," Francis replied, "They reached that conclusion on their own. They never asked me."

"He's not dangerous. He's maybe a danger to himself, what with how stupid he gets sometimes— _Shut up, pretend I didn't say that_, but he's not dangerous," Arthur says.

"I know that and you know that and everyone in the damn hospital knows that, but they don't know that and for some reason they've gotten that impression," Francis says, eyes hardening. Arthur stares accusingly, but Francis does not yield. "I am merely the messenger."

Arthur snarls, "Right," and storms back behind his desk. "Fine. Fuck. So how long do we have?"

Francis' face crinkles, and he hesitates.

"Bon-foy," Arthur mangles the French, perhaps to prove a point, "How long?"

"Two days from now. The letter was delayed, but the other transfer papers are already being filed. Or might already be done. I'm not sure, I can't find them."

Arthur sits back in his chair and covers his face with his hands. "_Fuck_."

Francis pulls out his own chair from nearby and slides onto it wearily. "Indeed."

It must have been Francis who turned off the radio, because Arthur's hands are still hiding his face. _Ground control to Major Tom._

"What…" Arthur sighs and slowly removes his hands. His face is most certainly not red and troubled. His hands are not trembling. "What, precisely, do you suggest we do now?"

Francis inhales. Exhales. Twirls his fingers like he's hoping for something to appear between them. "Well," he says after a moment. "we can't do much. Alfred will be transferred. Right now, all we can really do is take care of you."

"Me?" Arthur snorts. "I'll be fine. I'm just a bit irritated that they presume to take _my_ patient without even consulting me. To a place I'm not even told of. Two days before it happens."

Francis sighs, "You're the one who kept insisting he should see someone more specialized for this."

Arthur stands. "I didn't mean it like this!"

Francis stands as well, calmly, with his face carefully controlled. "Arthur," he says, his voice gentle, "Relax. Let's go get drinks this evening, alright?"

Arthur sits back down in his chair as Francis turns to leave, still wet and starting to shiver.

Arthur puts his forehead down on the desk, and makes sure he is very, very quiet.

000

They go to the bar.

Arthur hardly drinks. It might be because it's Saturday night and everyone's come to the local bar, making it a physical din of football players screeching and ass-pinchers getting slapped. It might be that Arthur's first glass was from a bad bottle and he simply can't enjoy it. It might be Francis sitting beside him, solemnly sipping something dark red and heavily scented across from him.

"It's too noisy here," Arthur says. He has to repeat it five times before he's heard, as his voice has dropped to barely above a whisper as of late.

So Francis finishes his wine, uproots them from their booth and takes Arthur home.

Francis' home.

000

The apartment is specious and well kept. The furniture is soft and tasteful, the lights gentle but sufficient to their purpose. Arthur suspects Francis changed each and every light bulb when he arrived two months prior, shipped along into his office along with the man who blabbered about stars.

Things had been going so _well_.

Francis helps Arthur onto the plush couch that looks, not new, but hardly worn down. It's plush and easy to lie down on. Difficult not to lie down on, in fact. Arthur hardly drank in the bar, yet still has to fight the urge to not flop over on the couch just to feel more of the plush, feathery support against him.

He's left there for just a few minutes, leaning against the pillows and relaxing happily as Francis enters his kitchen— which Arthur can see from where he sits, it's blue tile and green walls. It reminds him of the inside of an aquarium, in copper pots and pans that hang from the ceiling could be fish— Francis enters his kitchen to fetch them more alcohol.

Arthur feels this is one of the few night he truly has a right to over-indulge.

He realizes it's self pity and that from another angle, others might have just as much right. The Dr. Braginski Alfred mentions, or nurse Lauranaitis who brings him his meals and who Alfred has borrowed many facial expressions from. Maybe Francis has become fond of writing about Alfred. Maybe he will miss it more than Arthur will miss sitting in a stuffy little room with a badly colored couch.

Francis arrives with the alcohol. Arthur tries to push unpleasant things out of his mind, and fails.

"Whiskey," Francis says, "Cognac, and hot milk."

"Hot milk?"

"It's supposed to be comforting," and Francis shrugs as though he really doesn't know, and sits down beside Arthur. The couch barely shifts with the extra weight as Francis uncorks and beings to pour.

"Thank you," Arthur says as he takes his glass and raises it to his lips.

It's not very long before he's drunk. Not long after that to be drunk out of his common sense.

Francis takes little sips. Arthur is done with his bottle before Francis is done with his glass. Perhaps it's the couch or the quiet hum of traffic outside that makes drinking easier here. Perhaps it's Francis sitting beside him or that they're alone beside each other. Perhaps he has a subconscious fear of blabbering when he becomes drunk and realizes that this time, he won't blabber things as innocuous as his little family he's grown away from or sometimes his sexuality. Once, three weeks ago, in that little bar, he spilled it all out in his guts and hopes only Francis heard, because it was noisy then too, but the quiet isolation is still so much more comforting than noise. In noise, _someone_ would hear.

He's drunk by the time Francis is done with his first glass.

"God," Arthur says, "Fuck my life."

"It's not the end of the world," Francis says, and pours another glass. Arthur sulks and drinks the very last drops out of his bottle, and waits for Francis to get up and fetch another.

"Perhaps," he wishes Francis would get it soon, because his throat is very dry and he'd like something to moisten it. "I suppose you'll be leaving?"

"Yes, probably by the end of next week I'll have a new assignment," he sets his glass down and the conversation pauses as he gets up to fetch two more bottles. "These are all you're getting, by the way. I only have so much," he says. Arthur snorts and opens one. "And what are you planning to do?"

"Go back to analyzing regular people," Arthur answers honestly and polishes off his first glass. Francis raises and eyebrow. Alfred can't raise his eyebrows. "What?"

"Regular people?" Francis says.

"Yes," he refills and drinks more. His taste buds are becoming numbed, the flavor is no longer as strong, and perversely he wishes he could consume even more though he knows he's pushing it rather already, even though he's yet to start slurring. "Suicide, depression, shock, divorce, abuse, trauma, broken hearts, eating disorders, self esteem, coping with death or loss or worry. The things people come to me for."

"Ah."

"I liked talking with Alfred."

Francis' glass pauses halfway to his lips. Arthur knows now that he's going to speak, and will not be able to stop. At least they're in private. At least it's just Francis.

If only it were someone else.

"Really?" Francis says, and slowly takes his intended sip.

"I get somewhat bored with my usual things," Arthur admits, "He's not like that."

Francis' eyes are wide. "Bored?" His voice holds accusation.

Arthur has drunk enough not to care. He still wants to drink more. Maybe he really will drown in his sorrow, and the thought scares him, but hell if he's going to stop.

He's heard of this problem before among colleagues. It's commonplace. It's usual.

He just hasn't gotten around to getting a therapist of his own.

"We don't love our patients," he whispers into the rim of his cup. "We care and we listen, and when we walk out of the room, we cut ourselves off and stop caring until we go back in again, because you know what? If we don't, we become nervous fucking wrecks because of all the shit we hear every day. It's not cruelty, it's _necessity_. And… and Alfred's so different I can't help thinking about him when I'm not supposed to. And— and the shit he _says_ it's fucking… poetry. If Shakespeare knew what stars looked like, he'd write about stars; he'd write about the fucking stars. Alfred makes me feel like I've never seen a goddamn star in my life. And he _pities_ me because I haven't, did you know that? It was in the transcript. He _said_ he _pitied_ me, last Thursday, I—" Arthur sits up straight. "Nothing bad's happened to me in my entire fucking life!"

Francis makes a move like trying to wrap an arm around— to comfort him, but Arthur hunches away and throws up his hands, nearly dropping his glass before thinking better of it and setting it on the table before he speaks again.

"You don't get it, I'm adopted! I was adopted at birth, I don't give a _shit_ about my biological parents. Some kids do, but I don't. I've never been too curious about them, they were friends with my adopted mother, so I've already known everything about them my whole life. I've never gone hungry, no one in my family's died except a few great grandparents or uncles that I never knew or was too little to remember. Once or twice my brothers would stick a dead newt in my bed and I never learned how to swim and they think it's hilarious; coming out was embarrassing and then my older brother told me he was bi so it wasn't even a big deal— I talk to people every day who've tried to kill themselves, and then I go home and the news is all about starving children in Africa and people orphaned or raped and kids dying of heroin or gang violence, or some fucking war going on with people being killed. Every day! I—I'm not depressed because of all the shit _they've_ gone through, I'm fucking miserable because _I know how lucky I am!_ What kind of bastard gets upset about _not_ having his life fucked over?"

He flops on the couch, sighs deeply and buries his face in a plush pillow. His breath rattles but his eyes remain dry.

Francis sits quietly beside him, and touches nothing. He's not a therapist like Arthur is, but he seems to know the difference in saying the right thing, and when there is nothing to say.

For a while, both are silent with only the buzz of traffic and the TV to break it.

Finally, Arthur unburies his face.

"He loves the stars. He thinks they're some kind of— Sistine Chapel on a roof of the heavens. It's like listening to Desdemona gushing over Othello in there. It's horrid but lovely and— and nothing I try to tell him will make him think they're _not_ the most lovely things out there. It's _bullshit_, it's _madness_, all the lot of it."

Francis sits quietly beside him.

"…You're a poet when you're angry."

"_Fuck you,_ that doesn't make me feel better."

"I'm sorry. And I'm sorry Alfred can't see you as a star. Or, maybe at least, as lovely as one? Though you've lost a bit of the gas and dust, but at least all the hot air's still there?" Francis attempts a smile.

Arthur doesn't seem to notice. "I don't care about being a star. Being six million years old must be horrid. You know what I want? I want to stop fucking analyzing people. Just… stop. That's what happens to us, you know. We analyze our marriages, our relationships, and we start saying shit like 'yes, well you're only mad at me because your first girlfriend did a brutal text message breakup and you wanted to fuck your mother.' I can't help it. It's _true_. It's true."

Francis sighs, but Arthur is not looking at him.

"When Alfred leaves," Francis says, since Arthur will not spare him a glance, "I may very well leave too. I'm not one for permanent relationships. I move around a lot, and furthermore, while we're not six million years old, humans just live far too long to be stuck with only one other human for their entire lives. I find it stifling and cruel. That doesn't mean I don't love the people I'm with while I'm with them, nor does it mean that I don't want to… maybe, heal people, if you will. Or at least help them a little, when I can. And when they want me to."

Arthur is silent for a long moment, staring hard at the wall across from him. "So you want to fuck?"

Francis sighs again, and lets Arthur answer his own questions.

"…you know. That sounds nice. No attachments. No baggage. I could call in sick tomorrow and you'd know I'm not avoiding you." Arthur says once it's clear won't tell him plainly. His voice drops to a whisper and his green eyes flicker in hesitation. "…carry me?"

Like Prince Charming, Francis wraps his arms around Arthur and in a velvet baritone voice whispers, "Anything, mon petit lapin," against the cleft of Arthur's ear.

He's lifted from his seat and carefully carried upstairs, up to the top floor. Just a few meters higher, but still a few small meters closer to the endless, murky skies above them.

000  
><strong><br>End CH 3**

**A/N******

**I'm sorry that this update is a week late, people have been getting ill (myself included) and I didn't want to rush this since it's kind of an important chapter…**

**Is it "learned" or "learnt"? 0o**

**Those things Arthur says about his past? There's a word for that. Survivor's guilt. It's something people involved in or who become very close to a tragedy feel when they wish it happened to them as though it might've spared the other's involved, instead. I imagine a lot of therapists feel it, if they don't become apathetic first.**

**….Francis isn't a rapist, gais. Ferserious.**

**Also. Stars are not actually hot air. There is no air. Silly Francis, you know philosophy, not science!**

**I've never actually heard "Spaceman" (The Killers) on the radio. This saddens me greatly. I guess it is kind of an acid trip song, but at least it makes more sense than "Human." Sigh. :(**

**….I don't like bullets, but with A/Ns like this, I always feel like I should be using them because it's just so choppy. But I want to keep it short-ish. Asdfghjkl.**

**Notes******

**On that very last line, I give you a fun fact: technically, no direction is 'up'. We're on a little bubble floating through an endless void of almost-nothingness. Every direction is up. But "murky skies around them" sounds strange after a lifetime of seeing the sky and thinking "up!"**

**You guys may've noticed that Alfred's English has come a very long way. This is the "sink or swim" effect (not actual name) where a person who is thrown into a completely different culture will pick up the language and customs within a few months and be fluent in the language by six months. Alfred's going a little bit faster because people are actively teaching him and he knew a few basic things from those 70's TV shows and PETA messages.**

**Now for the brain- bendy stuff****: time dilution. Ooooh, time dilution. I'm still kind of confused at how this works, since I'm about as far from majoring in space physics as I am joining the military [/is a total cowardly wimp and is not ashamed] .**

**Okay. So, time dilution is what made **_**Planet of the Apes**_** a twist ending. Basically, when one point in space is moving at a constant rate their time is constant (ie – Earth) , the farther and faster you move separately from that constant point (say, space ship going close to light speed headed towards Alpha Centari) time will move differently. On a trip to AC and back, the people in the spaceship might age one year, while the people on earth will age nine years.**

**Theoretically, because of time dilution (assuming that a spaceship is **_**just that well equipped**_**) by sending a craft out at a constant speed of 1 G, we could explore **_**the entire currently known universe**_** within the crew's lifetime, but by the time they returned to earth, **_**Earth would be a dead lump of dead, uninhabitable rock, with all civilization long wiped out**_**.**

**It kind of puts our lives in perspective.**

**000**

**This chapter's dedicated to my brother, happy birthday. **

**Now I want everyone to go out and hug their family members and remind them you love them. If you have a bad relationship with a family member, maybe now's the chance to mend it. **

**Hetalia (c) H. Himaruya **


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to AllHeroesWearHats, CaptainCynical, and xIkuna for reviewing!  
><strong>  
>Arthur blinks, and it's time for Alfred to leave. The two days have passed— it <em>is<em> the second day, right then, right there, as he sits in his ugly little room with Alfred on the green striped couch and flowers on the wallpaper.

He'd taken the previous day off, claiming to have rather suddenly developed a rather nasty stomach flu and made a miraculous recovery once work had let out. He regrets it now, realizing it was one day less he would have. With Alfred.

Alfred who gazes at stars, Alfred who draws in scrawls and is still learning the alphabet. Alfred who, the nurses tell him, plays with his food in the dining hall. Alfred who yesterday beat Dr. Braginski in chess while Arthur wasn't there to see it; Alfred who has recently began humming to himself as he is lead through the halls. Alfred who nods too often and refuses to shake his head quickly because he feels like it rattles his brain too much.

Alfred who cried the day before: when he was told the news, saying, "But I was just figuring here out!"

Alfred who now sits across from him.

Fuck.

He's going to miss Alfred.

"So how are you? Feeling well?" Arthur's smile feels strained on his face. He doesn't want to be smiling. He wants to be curled under the blankets with a body pressed against him and be held and loved. Or maybe he just wants hot chocolate and his mother standing over him again, like she'd done with his first crush, saying 'suck it up, there's more important things than pleasing people,' and pampering him for a full day to remind him life _didn't_ end with someone else.

Alfred nods slowly. He bites his lip, his eyes look watery. He says nothing.

"So, I suppose we won't be meeting tomorrow," Arthur's eyes feel watery, too. But he's had more experience with this than Alfred has, he can already tell. He just hopes the boy— man— he just hopes the _man who acts like a boy_ won't start crying again.

Alfred nods once more, hands folded in his lap. He's begun to fidget. He has long, thick fingers. They're still quite pale.

"Are you packing yet?" Arthur wants to hold him, cradle that blond head in his arms and rock him to sleep as though he were a child, though Alfred still towers over him. He wants to hold Alfred more than he's ever wanted to hold anything in his life. Even more than the girl who refused suicide despite self-esteem issues with a dead brother and friends with cancer all at once, or the man who was in a car crash where his whole family died three years ago and had just pulled the plug on the last one who was in a coma, or the mother whose four year old had fallen down and—

—is it _wrong_ that he wants to hold Alfred more? Maybe he did want to hold them more, at the time. But right now, he isn't remembering all the others. He's remembering Alfred, sitting in front of him, silent. Barely a word of English. It's been _two months_ and the progress they've made. They had no right to take Alfred away. Not when Arthur hardly even knows who 'They' are.

Alfred is silent. He shakes his head slowly. His eyes still look watery.

Arthur's smile has long broken and dropped. It shatters to pieces on the floor, scatters to the four corners and hides its face under the wall-to-wall rug where it's slowly ground to dust by the ever-changing feet that plod the floors day in and day out, pouring out their hearts and minds and sometimes puke or tears.

He wants to hold. Someone.

"I'll miss you."

Alfred crumples into himself, nodding and crying and soon wiping snot off on his sleeves.

Arthur rushes to his side, wraps his arms around Alfred's broad shoulders and shushes him, muttering silly things like, "there, there," and "you'll be just fine. You're a strong, brave lad, aren't you?"

Alfred mutters too. He mutters through his gasps and sobs, mutters things into his sleeves as he wipes his nose. They're repetitive— all of them are things like, "I want to go _home_," "I'm scared," and "_Please_."

There are no nurses sent in to tranquilize Alfred. This is not something that needs sedation. This is something that needs time.

This is something that is needed in itself, on its own, because Arthur does not want to hold Alfred at all.

He doesn't want to hold anyone.

He wants to hold them. He wants to be held.

He wants the embraces to be mutual, and Alfred's hands are too busy wiping his own face to notice the quiet streams that twist down Arthur's cheeks.

000

Arthur doesn't give the transcript to Francis that day.

Francis doesn't ask for it.

No one really needs to see it that badly anyway.

000

The government transfer is due to arrive in the afternoon. It's a sunny afternoon. Unusual, with the weather they've been having lately with frequent downpours and semi-overcast skies.

Just as unusual is the worker himself.

He arrives at 2 P.M., promptly. The car he arrives in is small, and while Arthur hasn't had many transfers before, he certainly would have thought the car would have been larger and less personal looking. At least with glass between the driver's seat and back seat, as a safety precaution if nothing else, considering the purpose of the transfer was because Alfred was apparently _dangerous_.

But no, the car the worker arrives in is small and black. It looks expensive, new, even. There doesn't seem to be a speck of dirt on it anywhere.

The official himself is nearly as tidy. He is tall, perhaps a few inches above Francis' head and towering over Arthur. He could be as tall as Alfred, who is something of a giant, dwarfing many of the other doctors and nurses. The worker's hair is blond and wavy, falling about his face like a particularly shiny curtain, and yet it does not possess the same shimmer that Francis' over-conditioned hair seems to. His suit is black and he seems uneasy in it, adjusting the blazer by tugging at his cuffs often— his tie is folded incorrectly, and both Arthur and Francis, both having maternal instincts, struggle to suppress the urge to fix it.

He wears glasses, wire-framed. Behind them (perhaps it is a trick of the light) his eyes seem to be, of all colors, lavender.

Arthur doesn't look to closely. He's fidgeting too much and too nervous and too _upset_ to look closely.

Alfred is leaving.

That's all that matters at the moment.

"Hello," the abductor, thief, kidnapper, says, "my name is Matthew Williams. I'm here for Alfred?" and extends his hand in greeting at an odd angle, a bit crooked, but both Francis and Arthur shake regardless, and introduce themselves.

"I'm Arthur Kirkland, his therapist."

"Francis Bonnefois. Pleased to meet you."

Matthew's smile seems odd and maybe a little forced. It's as though he realizes he's stealing Alfred out of their hands and taking him to somewhere they didn't want him to be and there was nothing they could do about it.

In fact, Arthur was sure he knew it.

It takes all Arthur has to give a strained smile back, rather than outright glaring at the young man who probably has nothing to do with this and is only following instructions. That's what the logical part of his mind says. Matthew is only doing what he's told by taking Alfred away.

"You have a bit of an accent," Francis says, withdrawing his hand, "Do you mind if I ask, where are you from?"

Mr. Williams hesitates with his mouth haltingly halfway open for several moments before saying, "Uh, Hungary. We, um. Have a lot of accent."

Francis considers this a moment before nodding. "I see. I was just asking. I was thinking Quebec, actually. You actually sound a bit like a cousin of mine, from Quebec," he hums, "You are far more polite than he is."

Mr. Williams' lips twitch into a small smile, though it's once again strained. "Thank you very much. So, uh, about Alfred? Sorry. It is a fast day."

"Right," Arthur says, standing and ready. Quiet and solemn, he turns to move in the direction of Alfred's private room, "Just this way, down the hall."

And down the hall they go, leaving Francis and his arched eyebrows behind in their wake.

Arthur has not seen Alfred's room, he reflects. It's something he rather regrets, now that he thinks about it— but Alfred's room is nothing terribly special. There's a bed, a table and a window. There are a few little books (he can squint and make out the title _Magic Treehouse: Christmas in Camelot_ on one of the particularly small books and _Number the Stars_ on another) on the table, and the window is closed and locked in the corner.

Truthfully, the only thing special about Alfred's room is the fact that Alfred is in it. A small bag held close to his chest contains everything he owns: the notebook, pens and two mismatched changes of clothing from discount charity stores.

Matthew seems to take a deep breath as he stands in the door and Alfred _stares_ at them, his blue eyes impossibly wide. Some silly part of Arthur's mind thinks: concussion. The more logical part says: no, it's something much simpler than that.

Toris, Alfred's nurse, stands beside him and helps him to his feet, though they all know he's more than capable of doing it himself. Alfred mutters a quiet 'thank you' in any case, and begins to walk towards the door where Arthur and Matthew stand.

He shuffles his feet as he walks out of the building, and only looks up once he's left the front doors behind. He shivers in the cold air.

Once again, Arthur wonders if it shouldn't be something much more different than this. Straightjackets, handcuffs. Park the car closer to the front of the parking lot, at the very least?

But Matthew simply takes Alfred by the arm and walks him out, across the asphalt as Alfred stares at his feet and Arthur mutters curses under his breath.

He sees Matthew open the back door and help Alfred sit before moving around to the front and sliding in himself.

The car's engine starts—

_Rumble._

—and drives away, swerving rather sharply as they move out into the main road that makes the building an island in the city. A little world isolated in an ocean of people and cars that care-not and do-none for any within.

The windows of the car are tinted, with only the memory to assume them that Alfred is indeed in the back seat and not still sitting quietly in his room with Feliks or playing chess or reading one of the little books that may or may not teach him science. Arthur can't see if Alfred is looking back out at him, and so he glances over to Francis, who came out at some point to see Alfred off. It seems like he can't find Alfred behind the tinted windows, either, and is also relying on memory.

"He's going to crash, driving like that," Francis mutters quietly. Beside him, Arthur nods.

"As long as he does it after Alfred's gotten out," he says. Francis' laugh is softer than usual.

"Indeed."

Toris hums softly, before turning and returning to the inside of the building. Francis and Arthur hardly notice the nurse leave.

They stand there, staring out at the crowded parking lot, for quite some time it seems, before either of them say anything at all.

"How long until you're transferred again?" Arthur's throat is dry.

"Not too long," Francis says, pulls out a packet of cigarettes and lights one up. Arthur didn't realize he smoked. It doesn't bother him as much as Francis' answer. "Probably a week at most."

"Want to go drinking tonight, then?"

It's a cold day, and the world smells like fast food and car exhaust. There's little on the sidewalk and smoke rising to the air, nicotine on Francis' lips. They're in a world where the lights are so bright at night they drown out the bigger world they live in and call home, and yet, at the mention of a night together, a small smile peals over their faces. It doesn't matter if it's their last night.

It doesn't matter at all: only that at the end they're both sober enough to remember it.

"That sounds fantastic."

000

Alfred sits quietly in the back seat of the black car, shifting uncomfortably in his new clothes. The agent who looks like him, Mr. Williams, he introduced himself as, glances back occasionally as he drives the car.

The car seems to be going very slowly. They always seemed to be faster from Alfred's window. Or maybe he's still just used to passing stars like pinpricks in the sky. He'll be glad to get back on his own feet again and in control of his own speed. It might not be the speed of light, but it's Alfred's own speed, and Alfred's own speed is better than the speed of this car.

"How long are we going for?"

"_We're stopping right here._"

Alfred almost screams.

He knows the sounds coming from Mr. William's mouth. He knows the shapes his own mouth takes when he pronounces them and the vague shape of the people that created and taught him the words.

When he doesn't scream, Alfred almost cries— but after being in the building with the nurses and Arthur, he holds himself back. He's used to being taught the culture of a planet, but he had to discover this one's on his own. So far he's discovered how well they take to crying.

By the time Alfred has a firm grip on himself, to not scream and to not cry or cling or squeal, Mr. Williams is stopping the car by pulling alongside one of the long strips of gray rock that lies on both sides of the blue rock. Some back part of his mind realizes he never asked for their name, but people walk beside the car on the gray rock and cars speed by on the blue. In the front of the car, Mr. Williams sighs and releases the wheel once the car's stopped rumbling and vibrating beneath them. It must have been turned off.

But the car and the names of things outside aren't important right now.

"_I don't like these things. We'll walk,_" Mr. Williams says.

"_You're from Kanataraabajadina!_" The language spills forth from Alfred lips for the first time in much too long. It's like a warm blanket has been wrapped around his shoulders, finally finding someone else— anyone else— who speaks. _You're— you're the one whose name I always used to forget!_"

"_I am._" he hears Mr. Williams smile, through the voice, as those from Kanataraabajadina did for him. Mr. William's physical face does not move, as Alfred's did once. Now, Alfred's picked up too many of Earth's customs. His smile is so wide it feels as though it might split his face.

He crosses the space from backseat to front by leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Mr. William's human body. "_I've been so lonely. I couldn't understand their words at all._"

Mr. Williams knows this motion. Like Tony used to, he wraps the human arms around Alfred and holds him, leaning their heads together. "_You seemed to understand just fine, before. And we will have to speak their language outside, so say everything you can't say out there now. I don't know when we'll be able to speak privately again._"

"_Where is Tony?_" he asks.

"_We are still making his disguise. He'll be down by their New Year— several weeks from now. It's many days, but not too long. He will be a dog and meet us soon. I'm sorry it wasn't sooner but we wanted to be convincing so they would actually give you to us._"

Alfred is just glad they came at all.

He didn't want to face all of Earth alone.

"_How'd you do it?_" He touches Mr. William's face, just to make sure once again he isn't really talking to another human and is unnerved when he can hardly tell the difference.

"_Robot flesh suit and thin holographic layer for the little details like skin._" the suit smiles. Alfred finds himself tugging gently at the loose blond hair around its shoulders. It feels like human hair. Only the voice reassures him that Mr. Williams is in fact the quiet Polainuit he knew.

"_How did you get here?_"

"_I was on a probe ship in the area. We picked Tony and he told me what happened. The crew's helping us put everything together._"

"_So I'm going back?_"

The flesh suit is still smiling stiffly, even as Mr. Williams' voice hesitates and drops to a low hum that's like a punch in the gut, even before it's any more than a gentle vibration disturbing the air.

"_No._"

His eyes sting and cheeks begin to heat up. Alfred think he might be about to cry, but his ears are too alive with thousands of little buzzing sounds that he really can't be sure. "_But— But—_"

Mr. William's arms are still around him and he once more buries his face in the suit's shoulder. He has picked up too many habits from Earth. Mr. Williams has seen him cry when the Bladjafi's poison spread through his veins and set them ablaze. Mr. Williams saw him cry when the cow went bad in the shuttle and Tony threw a fit because it was Alfred's job to make sure the right chemicals were put on at the right time. Mr. Williams was with Alfred when he first saw the Samaiooa Rifahith, and had to cover his eyes in terror.

On Kanataraabajadina, they had something like crying. It was a keening, high-pitched noise that was almost maddening when it lasted, but there was no stigma. They found Alfred's crying preferable, as it was so quiet, quick and effective.

He's been on Earth for far too long.

"_I want to go back, please,_" he says. "_I don't want to stay here forever._"

Mr. Williams' voice is quiet and sad and gentle. "_You're banished until the rest of Earth joins as well. It's the law. It's fair._" his fingers gently pull at Alfred's hair, like the Kaoasfp's did once to groom him. It's soothing and Alfred finds himself relaxing more into the suit's arms. "_But there's no law stopping us from staying with you._"

Alfred lifts his head. His face is stinging from tears and his nose is already clogging up, but his eyes are wide and hopeful.

"_You and Tony…?_"

Mr. Williams' voice shifts once again to match the suit's smiling features. It warms Alfred from the inside out. "_Yes._"

Alfred's face still stings from tears but now his smile widens again to almost split his face and he quickly wipes the salty wetness from himself. "_Where are we going?_"

"_South, to meet Tony. The drops are easier there. We will figure afterwards out later._" Mr. William's voice is still beaming happiness right into Alfred's heart, and even though it's cold outside, he's warmer than he ever was at the hospital.

"_Wear these,_" Mr. Williams continues and the suit hands Alfred a pair of glasses which he puts on carefully, "_And we will cut your hair and get you new clothing. Tell people your name is Jones. And when we get Tony, you've had him as a pet for three years._"

"_How long have you been planning this?_" Alfred asks. He still can't raise his eyebrows, but if he could, he would have them raised.

Mr. Williams smiles, "_Since you've been gone. Now get out, we're buying food, you will need it. We have a long walk ahead of us._"

Alfred nods. He opens the car door and steps out, following Mr. Williams and gazing up and around at the tall buildings and milling people, the scents and rots that assault his nose and a constant breeze that rustles his clothes and air.

He sees differently through the glasses Mr. Williams has put on his face.

He doesn't mind.

He can't really.

He's never going home.

But Mr. Williams and Tony will be with him.

That's all he needs, even if the stars remain far, far away, and he can only glimpse their light from long, long ago.

000

_This is major Tom to ground control,  
>I'm stepping through the door<br>And I'm floating in a most peculiar way  
>The stars look very different today.<br>Here am I sitting in a tin can, far above the world  
>Planet Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do<em>

_Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles, I'm feeling very still  
>And I think my spaceship knows which way to go<em>

_Ground control to major Tom,  
>Your circuits dead, there's something wrong<br>Can you hear me, major Tom?_

_Can you hear me, major Tom? _

000

The End.

000  
><strong><br>A/N**

**Well…. This is the last chapter. My goal was to finish this before November, and I did it! I'm probably not going to upload anything during November, since I'll be doing NaNoWriMo and have school. Yaay, work! Sdfghjk**

**I don't think there's anything that's actually **_**notes**_** in here. Matthew's flesh-suit is totally made up and basically just a guess of how to maybe make one convincing, so if someone has a better idea of how one might work convincingly, I'd love to hear it!**

**The only other thing is about the last line. Lightyears are named that way for a reason. The sun's light reaches us about 8 minutes after it's radiated into space. Other stars, however, take BILLIONS of years for their light to reach us. For all we know, about half the stars we see are actually already dead, and we're only seeing the light that's left of them. Sort of like shooting something immediately before dropping dead and even as you're dead, the thing still keeps going.**

**If no one guessed, about half the alien words in this thing were created by way of keyboard-smashing.**

**Thank you all for reading this.**

**000**

**HEY, HEY, ATTENTION!**

**I'm thinking of doing three epilogue-esque things now, following up on what's happened to Francis, Al and Arthur after the events in here, and maybe give more of a glimpse into their personal live (in Arthur and especially Francis' cases). If I do them, their updates may take a little while since I'm trying not to /completely/ burn out before November.**

**I'd love it if anyone who is reading this would review and say whether they would like to hear more about them or if I should just leave the story as-is. If too many people don't really care or don't want me to, I might not, so please review and voice your opinion!**

**Thank you all for reading!**

**R&R!**


	5. ExtraEpilogue 1&2: Arthur and Francis

**Warnings for: OCs, a fem!nation, foul language, lots of italics, and not much science.**

000

Arthur

He was getting better. He knew he was getting better. Even though he was still so very lonely sometimes.

He'd gotten a therapist of his own now. One he'd never met before, which was recommended— he met his therapist through Braginski, the doctor who was teaching Alfred chess. Braginski and Arthur's therapist didn't seem to get along on the best of terms, but it was alright because the only terms they met on were strictly business. Both their business was helping people, and Braginski, from what Arthur has seen, was a good doctor and realized this therapist was a good therapist.

Arthur's therapist's name was Kiku. Kiku Honda, or Honda Kiku— he was part Japanese, so sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between which name was his first and which was his last, especially since Kiku seemed to view his name as a little bit of a joke to confuse people with, and Arthur found himself too polite to ask directly.

Kiku was soft spoken and polite. He liked tea, old paintings, and the colors brown and pink next to each other. His office was in a small, neat little building not far out of the city limits with a garden out back.

It was in this garden Kiku hosted his clients, weather permitting. There were rosebushes in the garden, flowering trees, and tulips that lined the paths to a small rocky pond in the center.

Near the pond, on little stone benches with feather cushions to make them comfortable, Arthur routinely poured out his heart: confessed everything from childhood hatreds and petty problems to the overwhelming guilt that gnawed at him whenever he thought of the things that bothered him when he knew how much worse it could be. He told Kiku about Alfred, how no one would tell him where the pretty blond boy had gone or how he's been doing. How Francis had disappeared off the face of the Earth as though he were one of those ridiculous aliens that never existed.

He told Kiku those things with the reassurance that Kiku had his own therapist, a nice dark haired man with a love of cats and laid-back attitude towards life. Kiku shared some of that laid-back wisdom with Arthur one day, while Arthur lamented the _emptiness_of his apartment.

"Why don't you take a vacation?"

Arthur blinked, "What do I _do _on a vacation? I haven't gone on one since I was a toddler."

Kiku paused and thought, "Visit your family," he said after a moment. "Go to the seashore with them, or a carnival. Not for too long, just a few days. Enjoy yourself. Relax. It will relieve you of some of your stress and help you appreciate life more if you take the time off to appreciate it with people you care about."

Arthur had a bit of a problem with that last bit. He had a bit of a problem with his family in general. It was nothing too terrible, but a dead animal in his bed here and there and some unfortunately well-aimed insults had gone a long way towards forging his relationship with his brothers.

Nevertheless, that evening he opened his cell phone and flipped through his contacts list until he reached the entry of "Arse3" and dialed for one of his elder brothers— the one who lived closest, in a big city in Wales.

Arthur had three brothers in total, all older and all great maniacal arses when they wanted to be. They were technically half-brothers, borne of different fathers but all fiercely loyal to their shared mother.

His two eldest brothers were twins, and Arthur had seen their father a grand total of one time, a time when their father came to visit and tried to _lay hands_on one of them. The next time Arthur saw him, the man was face-first on the pavement with their mother being arrested for assault until she could prove it was done in defense of her children. They lived with the neighbor for a month. He had been five years old.

Arthur had seen his middle sibling's parent once as well, in the local paper as a man arrested for drug dealing and usage of his own stock. Their mother told their middle sibling that stupidity wasn't inherited, it was taught, and she expected them all to know better, and that was the end of that. None of them were ever entirely sure if she felt the stupidity was in the drug dealing itself, the using of one's own drugs, or in the getting caught. They never asked.

His eldest brothers went their separate ways. One went into ships, and the other became a jockey, but each time they saw each other they became glued to each other's hip once more as though they were Siamese rather than Fraternal.

Their middle sibling, who had a knack for rhythm, had gone to study literature and music in Wales, grew up to be a critic of anything and everything with a rhyme scheme or musical score, and had the audacity to publish two romance novels and send each of his siblings a free copy.

The four mixed quite like oil and water when they were together, and with the exception of the twins, all four tended to acknowledge their aversion to everyone else and avoid each other most of the time unless familial engagements dictated otherwise.

This oil-and-water reaction was why Arthur was startled when he heard one of the twins' voices through the phone when he had dialed their middle sibling.

"Kirkland residence, may I help ya?"

"Why the fuck are _you _picking up?" Arthur said.

The voice of his sibling came back distorted through the wire, "Oh, Artie? Is that you? What d'ya mean 'why am I here,' why wouldn't I be? You're the one calling, aint'cha?"

"Yes," Arthur said, "but I wasn't calling _you_. Now explain why you're in…. Wales."

"Llanfairpwllgwyn gyllgogerychwyrndrobwl lllantysiliogogogoch ," his brother said. "Learn the fucking name."

"Right," Arthur said. "There. That ridiculous town. Explain yourself."

"Fuck, we didn't tell you?" his brother said. "Alroight. Guess who knocked someone up and came running down here crying about it?"

"Tell me you didn't procreate."

"_I_didn't. But if I did, my children would be fucking beautiful, don't lie t'yourself. Nae. Want a hint?"

"I don't want to play games. I just wanted to talk to the prat."

"Here's your hint: he's just run screaming out of Ulster and has somehow managed to get thrown off again this week, but still not been as badly hurt as when 'is girlfriend maimed 'im."

Arthur groaned, "God, that child must be hideous."

"Nae, she's actually cute, but only once you get past that she inherited the freckles. So hurry your sorry arse down here and come meet her. You're not that late to the party, I just got down here the other day."

"So everyone's down there?"

He could practically hear his brother grinning through the phone. "Yeah. Everyone. Even your favorite nephew—" Arthur's groan was ignored, "—who seems to really like cute babies, y'ken? So, when are ye comin' down?"

Arthur blinked blearily, trying to comprehend yet another relation to deal with, one that he didn't have the mental preparation to deal with quite yet. After a few moments of self-examination, he found rather oddly that a part of him wanted to ensure this child did not grow up like the rest of his family had, and to do that he would have to meet the child before his siblings sunk their ridiculous claws too deep into her childhood.

Not to mention, a friendly family spat might very well lower his blood pressure, which he noted had gotten rather high lately. Not being told about a new addition was quite a good excuse for a living room brawl.

To Arthur's bemusement, he found himself looking at the calendar before he even had decided whether he wanted to truly go or not (they were his _brothers_which should have been enough reason to snub them) .

"A day or two," he found himself saying. "Is Mum down there?"

On the other end of the line, his brother scoffed, "D'you think she'd miss the chance to see a grandkid?"

Arthur thought it was rather odd. He was speaking to one of his brothers about going to what amounted to a family reunion, a rather long car trip and leaving the hospital and patients who needed him.

It was preposterous to think of himself first when there were people who needed him.

But maybe he needed to help himself before he helped anyone else.

He was on the train down to Wales three days later with three bottles of whiskey and a little cloth doll that would hopefully last for years.

000

Francis

(To his credit, when he was first told, Francis made it all the way down the hall to the bathrooms before anything happened.

"_**FUCK!**_"

He must not have shouted as loudly as he thought he had. Only two nurses come to make sure he wasn't bleeding out on the floor. )

Nice was one of his favorite cities. He disliked spelling out the name while in English-speaking countries, because English-speakers always seemed to snigger, but the name was just a cover for the city itself.

He was born and lived in Paris and he knows all about it— the meals that cost 100 euros apiece and the tattered beggars on the sidewalks holding kittens and dogs cradled to their chests. The trees lined the streets and the weather that was rarely too hot, and the tourists that flooded every corner. On the last days of school the children would all take a field trip to Versailles and Marie Antoinette's village. His favorite spot in Paris might just have been the underground with the wares, stalls and drink machines all hidden from the eyes of tourists by the dirty and worn tunnels of the metro, cheap and ugly, but so much more tolerable than the crowds of la Galarie Lafayette— though it was obvious where he would have preferred to do his actual shopping.

Paris was where he learned to smoke, for everyone smoked in Paris.

Nice was where he learned to breathe.

Nice remained, forever, one of his favorite cities.

Yet, it was still an intolerable tourist trap, and as he was from Paris and not Nice, he was forever branded one of the wretched tourists.

Tonight, though he would love so much to simply breathe in the sweet Nice air, he smoked as he walked the streets. It was a habit he'd been trying to break, and he personally felt he had done rather well in the past few months. It would probably be easier to resist if he could refrain from keeping a packet on him though— just in case. Just in case he had a case of nerves or a sudden need to relax himself.

Francis had a horrible problem with temptations. He fully accepted this, and tried to control his indulgences, typically with little success.

He sidestepped and danced through crowds of foreigners, the numbers of which he'd only ever seen in July below la Tour Eiffel (it sounded so much _better_in its proper language) of all nationalities. He separated the English and Americans rather easily from their accents, and thought he spotted a Spanish family somewhere down the street, huddled below one of the jagged-barked trees, pouring over a map. Perhaps even some Finns off to the side, slowly dissecting a restaurant's menu.

He passed them swiftly, narrowly avoided being run over. Between bisque, buttercup-yellow and cream buildings, he caught a glimpse of the cerulean sea that put the evening sky to shame.

He skirted uphill. Her house had always been far too complicated to reach for his tastes. Thank God he didn't use the rental. He much preferred the bikes of Paris or mopeds of Italy. But Nice made up for its hills by providing a beautiful landscape while he walked, even if it _was_clogged by tourists.

The house he sought was a decent ways up the hill he climbed. Stone, and an odd off-white color that reflected everything from the sunset to lights of the vehicles that slid by.

He trotted to the doorstep and wiped his feet on the welcome mat ( "bienvenue!" ) , straightened his shirt and tie and patted down his hair before raising his hand to the wooden door. He knocked thrice.

"Une momente!" she called from inside. Feet could be heard clattering down the stairs and soon, the door opens.

In the doorframe stood a woman: tall and voluptuous. Not fat but aesthetically plump, with dark golden curls pulled tightly into a tail at the back of her head and a dark blue sun dress that brought out the color of her eyes.

"François," she said, "Tu n'avais pas me telephoné."

"Désolé," he smiled sheepishly. "…Je voudrais venir dans votre chez, si possible, Marianne."

Marianne lifted a beautifully arched eyebrow, and stepped aside. "_I haven't seen you in quite a while,_" she said, leading him to the living room. "_Do you need something to eat or drink?_"

"_No, I'm fine,_" Francis said, and settles himself down on one of her plump fake-leather couches and laid his head on one of the embroidered pillows. _"I was reassigned near here. I need a place to stay. Will you put up with me for a few weeks?_"

Marianne retrieved champagne, despite his answer. She appreciated a giddy Bonnefois. "_I expect to be paid back if I do let you stay. I know you'll drink me dry._"

"_Yes,_" Francis said, "_but I'll also cook you fantastic dinners._"

"_And help me weed the garden._"

"_And help you weed the garden._"

"_And pay for dinner every time we go out._"

"_I will pay for your dinner in a restaurant once a month and no more._"

Marianne huffed and crossed her arms over her bountiful chest. "_You're very kind._"

Francis smirked. "_I know. So where do I sleep?_"

"_The floor._"

"_Right. The guest room is just upstairs and to the left, if I remember correctly? Next to the toilets?_"

Marianne's face did not wrinkle as she furrowed her eyebrows and stuck out her tongue. It was one of the strangest things to see, and yet, her face had preserved remarkably after so many years of throwing faces at each other. She did have laugh and stress lines forming— the years were coming to her, slowly. Francis knew deep in his heart she would age gracefully from beautiful young lady to glorious elderly woman. He hoped to be close enough to watch that transformation, just as he watched her first one from nymph to young lady in their father's—or grandfather's, or godfather's, they still weren't sure—arms.

They had known each other for a long time. There had never been sex between them, or even dating. If they shared blood, which was uncertain considering their similar appearances, the blood should have been a thin enough tie as to be inconsequential. Yet they never touched, though Francis appreciated her beauty and she had never denied his.

Just because he'd never felt sexual attraction didn't mean he did not love Marianne to the depths of his soul.

She was another of Romulus' adoptions. The only other French-born one. She lived in Nice for most of her adult life, though her favorite city was Paris. With the way her eyes lit up as they walk the nighttime streets and sprawling flea market, he wondered sometimes why she didn't simply live there.

According to her, living in it would make Paris loose all its magic.

He'd never been entirely sure what she meant, but he wasn't thinking on it right then. He was tired, though not from jetlag. The Chunnel was swift and the train ride to the south took only so many hours.

"_What's wrong?_" she asked just as his eyes flickered shut. Her couch was so comfortable, his reason for exhaustion didn't matter very much: merely that he is _so_very tired and what he sat on was extremely soft and comfortable.

"_Nothing much. There was just a bit of a problem at work, so I'm a little tired after dealing with all that,_" he said, yawning.

"_Take tomorrow off,_" she suggested.

"_I plan to, don't worry,_"

Marianne's eyebrow rose just ever so slightly again. "_So really, what was the problem?_"

Francis paused and absently chewed his lip, more of kneading it with his teeth than biting it. He wouldn't want to bite. "_A patient was kidnapped out of an English mental hospital,_" he said after a few moments. "_Probably by a cult, but no one really knows. He was quite… special needs._"

Marianne slid to sit beside him and waited. Five minutes later, and Francis was explaining the entire thing.

He sighed and leaned back in his seat. "_Someone forged the papers and faked the entire thing. The car was bought two hours earlier from a nearby dealership. The suit, too. Everyone was too confused and worked up to double check him, and it was such short notice. Even if it wasn't a pseudonym, there are_thousands_of Matthew Williams' on Earth, at the absolute least,_" he runs his hands through his hair, "_and Alfred's out there right now with one of them._"

Marianne moved to lean against him, her pale little hand resting on his shoulder. "_You weren't transferred, were you?_"

Francis allowed a little smile to sneak its way onto his face, "_No. I was given time off to collect myself. I couldn't stay there, though. Someone would ask why I hadn't left. I haven't told any of them._"

"_You don't want them to worry,_" she said.

"_I don't,_" Francis said. "_It's not their problem. They have quite a few of their own problems, if I may say so myself. The nurse has anxiety attacks, the therapist has a guilty conscience and the doctor's an abuse survivor. So I've been trying to wrap it up as best I could on my own for the past few days. Relevant governments and police forces have been alerted. We'll find the ones behind this eventually._"

They would find them before any more damage could be done to Alfred.

Francis hoped, at least.

Francis had grown up Catholic, just as all his other adopted siblings had. He'd been Catholic from the day of the crash that stole his parents, to the day he'd fought with his highschool sweetheart whose house had burnt with her in it, to the day his father-grandfather-guardian waved him off during graduation.

Francis' beliefs had waned over the years. He wasn't as strict in observing Lent and no longer worried quite as much about perhaps half of the sins he knew, and may have slipped in chicken on Friday once, but he did _try_to go to Mass. He prayed every few weeks. He held his own private memorials in his bed at night, staring up at the ceiling.

He didn't want to add another name to pray for when he clutched the crucifix that hung innocently behind his shirt collars and pressed into his skin, indentations beat into it by a throbbing heart.

Godspeed.

God willing.

And Marianne pulled him into her arms, where he slept.

000

**A/N**

**Okay. So I told some people that I'd start uploading the epilogues in December. Um. I'm only a month late at least? In my defense, I switched computers midway through December and didn't have any access to a writing program for a while. **

**And that's why this is so late.**

**Thanks for being patient with these extras, I'll try to get Alfred's epilogue up next week sometime at the latest. **

**Did I mention I fucking love Isle!OCs and Marianne? Because I do. **

**I don't think I have any notes in this but I'm overall happy with how it turned out, and I hope everyone else is too. Thanks again with being patient with me and I'll try to get Al's up soon.**

**(actually, I do have a note: **Llanfairpwllgwyn gyllgogerychwyrndrobwll llantysiliogogogoch** is a real city in Wales. It does not actually have any spaces in it, but FFnet won't let me display it any other way. It translates to "St. Mary's Chapel in the Hallow of the White Hazel Near To the Whirlpool of Llantysilio of the Red Cave" . All arguments are now invalid because I think Wales just punk'd the entire world. )**

**I hope everyone had a good holidays!  
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**Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for my impression of the Isles. Everything else is owned by H. H.**


	6. ExtraEpilogue 2: Alfred

**Warning for: Tony's language and a return to science.**

Alfred

Alfred's initial optimism about surviving on earth was rapidly dwindling. He could see why his species had adapted to live in such tight groups together (as opposed to some, such as the G_rr_éh, who only saw their mates, the lilGüreen-meyn once or twice in a lifetime to exchange sperm) . While in the hospital, Earth had been comfortable enough, and he had almost begun to believe the faint unhappy memories he recalled from so long ago in his existence were the exception rather than the rule.

Now he simply believed Earth was wet, cold and miserable, as well as dark and filled with a variety of creatures that he'd never seen before. At night it got even wetter, colder, more miserable, _and_ darker.

Mr. Williams— Matthew, as he'd said his pseudonym was— had fewer problems, having a highly adaptive immune system that worked diligently to guarantee him his several hundred year lifespan. Tony had an advantage over the both of them, being able to feed off most anything around him, though he found eating in his disguise to be a rather difficult affair.

Alfred, on the other hand, had no such adapted immune system or ability to feed off air particles should he so choose to, but was forced to do as the rest of his species did, eating the animals he had typically only helped transport and drinking water that came out of the ground muddy and cold.

For what seemed like the hundredth time since his escape with Mr. Williams, Alfred was ill with a headache and churning stomach.

He rather vaguely recalled such symptoms affecting him at the hospital and his nurse, Toris, clicking his tongue and muttering something about 'sensitivity', and afterwards his food had tasted different but his irritated stomach and head had not been so bad. He had assumed it was just something all earthlings had to deal with when they ate.

He supposed not, now that he had rediscovered the wonderful protective mechanism of throwing up. He simply couldn't figure out how to eat _without_ the uncomfortable side-effects.

Now, with a foul tasting throat and pools of churning water where his stomach and head should have been, he was reduced to being carried by Matthew through the forest in which they'd taken refuge. If Matthew minded, he didn't mention it, for his bodysuit was strong enough and Alfred was growing far too lightweight. Tony trotted along by Matthew's heels. The days seemed to be getting colder, but Matthew's suit, while warm, just didn't produce enough body heat to keep Alfred comfortable. Instead he was covered in all the clothes they could spare while still allowing Matthew to look something like a human, just in case.

They rested by a low-hanging tree that evening as the clouds rolled, gray, above their heads.

"_Alfred, I think we're going to have to stop,_" Matthew said. Alfred blinked up at him blearily. "_I mean, I think there's something very wrong with you, and we're going to have to talk to the other humans to try and fix it_."

Alfred made the most disgruntled face he was capable of and curled under his pile of clothes. Tony chimed in beside him, furry face all scrunched and angry. "_No, the fucking fuckity fucks will_fuck_so there._"

(it sounded strange, but in Tony's language there was one particular word that could be used to replace most other words in a statement, and yet in the closest human equivalent was considered something of a taboo. Alfred really was rather confused by the rest of his species sometimes. )

Matthew's fleshsuit scowled with his hidden body, as he'd gotten much more used to controlling its functions and no longer even thought about it, though his voice was still the main-space of his emotions. Alfred's body relaxed against the tree he'd been leaned against and tried to focus on the words rather than the sensory input from Matthew's voice, which radiated a quietly buzzing sound of fondness and concern.

He missed most of the words anyway, but was snapped out of the lull when Tony spoke again. "_Fuck no. Fucking fucking limeys here like fucking with my fucking fucker._"

Tony also sounded oddly fond on that last 'fuck'. It was likely Matthew's voice getting to him as well. Alfred tried harder to listen.

"_And what will you do if you lose him then, because you didn't want to bring him to a someone who might actually know how to help him?_"

This time, Tony merely growled. Usually, Tony's growl was terrifying, and a sign that Alfred should go run and hide very quickly in the cargo bay. In his new furry form however, it was oddly… less intimidating.

It didn't help Tony that Matthew had never quite had the same knee-jerk response to things that Alfred did. The only things Matthew knew that growled like Tony were the Poobe'rs, and when a Poobe'r growled, you stood your ground and growled right back. Which is exactly what Matthew did.

"_Are you regretting coming to save him, Tony? Is that why you won't stand a little risk?_" Matthew said.

The argument spiraled into a series of _fuck fuck fuck_s and ended soon after. Tony went out to scout the area for some sign of intelligent human life while Matthew watched over Alfred, trying to keep him comfortable and humming out soft and comforting sounds when he couldn't think of the proper words.

It was very dark when Tony returned.

Alfred had fallen asleep shivering and Matthew, while awake, maintained the appearance of sleep beside him. About twice a year, Matthew would simply fall into a very deep sleep and that was all, and he'd taken one of his naps before descending to Earth. Consequently, he was fully awake and attuned to the night sounds as the quiet crunches and clatter of Tony's paws returned with new footsteps behind him.

The makers of those new footsteps were indeed very human. There were two of them, and they held bright lights in their hands, one vertically cylindrical, which illuminated all around, and the other horizontally cylindrical, with the beam of light going forward wherever it was pointed.

"Hello?" the shorter of the two said.

Matthew jolted up from where he pretended to sleep, called "Hello?" back and tried to remember the rest of the English Alfred had been helping him with.

The two figures came closer, along with Tony. Matthew hoped they were some of the better humans as he hovered over Alfred's covered form.

"Are you alright?" The shorter one said. As the human got closer and held his vertical light up higher, Matthew could see more clearly that he was one of the very light earthlings, like Alfred and his disguise, with the same colored skin and hair. The tall one behind him was the same, but more geometrically square. A square jaw, squared shoulders and squared gait all set upon light features. The tall one wore metal strips that held glass over his eyes. Matthew had seen the metal strips several times before, and worn fake ones as part of his disguise to the hospital. He'd lost them somewhere along the way. He thought he remembered them being called 'glasses'

"Um, no," Matthew said.

The short one grew close enough that his light fell on Alfred. Until then, the taller one had looked more threatening, but as the short one saw the wrapped form, his face turned into a troublesome expression that Matthew couldn't place.

"What happened to him?"

"He…" Matthew searched for the word. "Um. He is not… feeling well. And he is cold."

The short one nodded and set his cylinder down and knelt beside Alfred, gently pulling the blankets away from his face.

"How'd you wind up in this forest?" the man asked.

"It is very… long thing to say."

The man nodded. "Alright. Fine. We'll hear it later. You're very lucky for that dog you have there. He nearly sent Hanna into a fit, but didn't go away until we went after him. Your friend will need help though…" he squinted down at Alfred in the dim light. "Are you brothers?"

Matthew shook his head and said "No," not recognizing the word, in which case he might have agreed.

Alfred had woken by then, and blinked up blearily at the stranger, who shushed him. "It's alright, we're going to get you somewhere nice and safe and warm, alright?" the stranger said, gently touching his face and peering into his eyes. "Berwald, could you come over here? You might need to carry him."

The larger man approached. The short one spoke to him softly and quickly, using words Matthew didn't know or had trouble recognizing. A little while later, though, the large one, Berwald, was wrapping his arms around Alfred's cocoon of clothes and gently lifting him off the ground. Not three feet away, Tony paced, growling softly. Matthew shushed him, and the short one held out a hand to help Matthew up off the ground.

Matthew lifted Tony off the ground, carrying him much like Berwald was carrying Alfred, though Alfred was much quieter and protesting much less then Tony was.

The two humans led them to the smallest house they'd seen yet. It was made out of the trees that Matthew assumed must have either grown very large and been hallowed out, or grown very oddly with no branches.

The short one opened the house's door for Berwald, who had to stoop down while carry Alfred in order to get them both in without cracking their heads. Matthew followed quietly.

The room they entered was small, but spacious and cozy all at the same time. A fire burned in a small stone inlet, most of the floor was covered in a large, ornate rug, and there were copious amounts of soft furniture and fuzzy pillows lying about. A small red table in the center of the room was the only surface besides the walls and ceiling not covered in something soft.

It was very warm. Matthew only realized Earth's cold had begun affecting him as well as Alfred when he stepped inside. Tony had finally stopped growling soft insults in his arms and relaxed.

The giant Berwald set Alfred down gently on the large plush couch, gently unwrapping him from the coats and setting them aside. He pulled Alfred's shoes and socks off and wrapped him in a large red blanket instead. Matthew saw his eyelids flutter as he curled into it.

The short one had vanished when they came in, running off to another room in the house through a small opening, and reappeared not long later with a bowl of something yellow and smelling, a cup and a pitcher of water. Berwald pulled the small red table closer to the couch, and the little one set the meal down on it.

"Something for you to eat. We can make toast too, if you need something more solid," he said, and then turned to Matthew and ushered him to a dark plush chair beside Alfred's couch. "Sit down, you've been sleeping in the forest, get comfortable. Are you hungry?"

Matthew shook his head. The little man ignored him, walked off to the hidden room once more, and returned with a similar bowl of soup.

"It'll warm you up," he said. Then, he fetched another blanket, gave it to Matthew, and a large white towel that Tony grudgingly curled up on.

Then, the short one sat himself down on one of the other chairs across the room, and Berwald situated himself on a similarly padded bench beside the door.

"Everyone's comfy? Great," the short one said, "I'm Tino. Now what's everyone's name?"

Matthew named them curtly. "Thank you," he added.

"Thank your dog," Tino said. "He was quite eloquent in explaining the situation. I don't think I've ever seen a dog do that before."

Tony grumbled in his native language, and Matthew almost admonished him for doing it so loudly when Tino spoke again.

"Yes, like that," he said. "But in English."

Alfred squeaked from where he was still wrapped in blankets and had hesitantly begun sipping his soup. Matthew braced himself to run.

But Berwald was sitting by the door.

"You can calm down," Tino said, a little smile peeling over his features. Matthew hated human faces. He hated their faces and their voices and how he could never tell if they were being honest or not. "We're not going to hurt you or turn you in. We'd just like to hear the full story. Once you're comfortable with it, of course. A talking alien dog isn't something that we come across often."

Matthew didn't think enough to speak words. He merely let out a low, irritated hum that grew into a throbbing anger at Tony. Tony growled back.

"_You were so fucking desperate to get my fucker help. They wouldn't fucking follow me, so fuck I had to do some fucking thing._"

Matthew continued to buzz angrily. Alfred hid under his blanket on the other side of the room, likely not wanting to get in the middle of a fight with them when he still felt so bad.

Tino looked between the two and cleared his throat loudly. They ignored him. Berwald cleared his throat exceptionally loudly from the doorway. Tony stopped growling. Matthew's buzz persisted, but more quietly.

"We aren't going to throw you out," Tino said. "We already brought you in knowing, so that would be a little bit pointless I think. So can you all just relax?"

Matthew's face stiffly tried to find a suitable emotion, but his tone was still trapped somewhere between irritated and worried. "It was not our _want_ for you to know."

"I know," Tino said. "But I'm sure you'll have quite a difficult time finding someone else with a little medical experience to take care of you all at this time of night, in the middle of the woods, who isn't concerned about _why_ you're in the woods with a very ill man, and won't turn call the cops on you because of it."

At this point, Matthew was becoming rather tired of not understanding everything Tino said. He turned to Alfred and asked for a translation in his native tongue. Alfred didn't respond from beneath the blanket.

Matthew called his name. Alfred still didn't respond.

By this point, Tino seemed to have caught on to what Matthew wanted and had gotten up from his seat to investigate. Delicately, he pulled the sheet away from Alfred's face.

At some point between pulling the blanket over his head and Matthew trying to speak with him, Alfred had fallen asleep.

It was not a very pretty type of sleep. His chest rose and fell quickly and his eyebrows furrowed lightly. His lips were still blue and his cheeks were bright red.

Tino tuned to Matthew and annunciated very slowly. "It isn't good for people to eat things outside without cooking them properly, or even just drinking the water. He will keep getting worse unless you want me to help him. That means I may need to talk to a professional, er, a hospital. If I say he's my son, they won't be allowed to do anything to him without my permission. Do you want me to help him?"

Matthew's face finally settled on an appropriately distressed expression that matched the growing hum around him.

Tino repeated himself again.

Tony growled out curses in English in his corner, along with something that sounded suspiciously like _he's not in charge_ but Tino only glanced in his direction before his gaze returned to Matthew.

"Well?" he asked. "I don't have to kick you out to save your friend, do I? Please don't make me. I'd feel like a mean person and it's not a particularly nice feeling to have this late at night."

Matthew's suit blinked and scowled. "What?"

Tino smiled. "It's really more of a question if I'm going to help all of you or just him," he said.

"We are staying together," Matthew said firmly.

"Wonderful," Tino said. "Sit down while I take care of him, then. I'm sure we'll get to understand each other eventually."

Matthew scowled and retuned to his seat. Berwald, who had disappeared from his mind temporarily, entered with a large red bag that Tino opened. He began looking through little capsules and more long (but much thinner than before) cylinders and setting some of them out. He took one particularly long cylinder and slid it partway between Alfred's lips and checked a strap on his wrist constantly as he continued to arrange to contents of the bag. Eventually, he took the cylinder out of Alfred's mouth, but never stopped pulling out odd and ends.

"So tell us about how you all wound up on earth looking like you do?"

Matthew processed it slowly. "Um," he said, "We… do not know English so well to tell you. Alfred can speak better. We are only here until Alfred is gone."

Tino nodded. "Well," he said, "I'm sure we can persuade Alfred to tell us the story when he wakes up."

Tony made an odd noise. Tino rolled his eyes.

"Relax. He _will_ wake up. That's one of those things you just don't need to worry about."

Matthew seemed to find it in himself to buzz a little louder and a little more irritably at that as he slowly found the human words he needed.

"If he… does not we will be _very_ not-happy."

Tino smiled and patted his shoulder.

"Well I have nothing to worry about," the little man said. "Because he'll be fine."

000

Alfred died, eventually, as all creatures did.

He died young by human standards, at fourty-two years of age, when the stress of living on an unfamiliar planet finally took its toll with a bad strain of flu.

By Matthew's and Tony's standards, he died an infant.

Tino and his companion Berwald had kept them all the years they'd stayed. Tino and Berwald kept them even as the pair grew old and wrinkled, helping wrap the pale body in a white bedspread and driving the body out to an open field where Tony would be able to call down and land his ship more easily.

Matthew had not yet shed his body suit when the takeoff occurred, and so with a slightly fraying human figure, Tino and Berwald saw them off.

Takeoff was noisy, ear-splitting. No one was worried about explaining it to the governments, who would excuse it with a rogue hot air balloon exploding, despite the utter lack of debris and the lightly scorched earth.

Takeoff was only noisy until they broke the atmosphere; the heat surrounding Tony's hull dissipated. All was silent, and all directions were up.

The ship ghosts soundlessly through space, slipping through the cloud of debris surrounding Earth and weaving seamlessly through the almost utter nothing that followed.

All was quiet.

It was ninety-three million miles to the nearest star.

And Alfred was finally home.

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The End.

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**IT'S FINALLY OVER!******

**I started this... what, something like October? Late September? Skipped two month due to NaNo and personal problems and now it's February and this monstrosity is finally over with! In Word it comes to about 52 pages and 20,628 words. Even my completely failed NaNoWriMo went longer than that, but it's 20,628 words I'm**_**proud**_**of, damnit!******

**This story started out me thinking Techtonik was secretly Al and Arthur being secret agents who dealt with earth-alien relations and Al was a linguist expert who was abducted as a child which is why he knew tons of alien languages but completely sucked at Earth languages. My theory was rejected, but wouldn't leave me alone, so I wrote this to get all the space out of my head.******

**I really had fun writing this story, and I really hope that you all who've taken the time to read it have been enjoying it, too.******

**Originally, Tino was supposed to be Santa Claus, and then 'Gnome proofread and reassured me that my "this is probably really dumb" feeling was indeed most accurate. So instead you get the sad/happy/asdfghkl ending. I like this ending a lot better.******

**Notes~! I missed notes!******

**Alfred's immune system is not used to living on Earth. That's why he's getting sick and dying young. While he was at the hospital, he was minimally exposed to lots of things that would have made him ill, and when he felt bad there would always be personnel on hand to help make him feel better. Now that he's out of the hospital, he's bearing the brunt of all the illnesses that he doesn't have a natural genetic immunity to.******

**If a person has not been exposed to processed food, or only ever eaten processed food and suddenly switches to unprocessed, they are going to get sick. It's a very uncomfortable sickness that churns your stomach and gives you a pinch between your eyes. O hai personal experience. ):******

**So yeah. He was probably in his twenties/thirties when he got chicken pox.******

**Earth is 93 million miles from the sun! : D******

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Thanks again for everyone who read! Please drop a comment if you have some time, I really love talking to people and I do my best not to bite :)


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